


Cloak and Dagger

by RoachIsJudgingYou



Series: glitter and gold [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst and Drama, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood Magic, Blood and Injury, Character Study, Competent Jaskier, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Dark!Jaskier, Deadly Plants, Diverges from canon, Elder Blood (The Witcher), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Epic Battles, Excessive use of italics, Fae Jaskier, Feels, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Forbidden Magic, Gen, Geralt Thinks, Geralt just thinks so, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Geralt's inner monologue is just Vesemir and Jaskier, Hand wavy magic, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier has magic, Jaskier is sad, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, M/M, Magic, Magic Jaskier, Magic!Jaskier, Mind Games, Murder, No Character Death, No Major Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, Not Really Character Death, Occult Magic, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Poison, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Roach is So Done (The Witcher), Roach is the Best (The Witcher), Tagging as I go, Torture, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, Whump, Worldbuilding, ancestry dot com doesn't exist in the witcher so instead we use blood magic, assassin plot, badass witches, being cooped up freaks him out, brief manhandling, everyone hates Campbell just roll with it, for the Angst ™, fun but probably predictable plot twists in the future, geralt is paranoid, geralt thinks about death a lot in later chapters, gotta avoid those spoilers tho, gratuitous use of the word 'fuck', half-beta'ed: we're still burning but not quite as bad as cintra, hallucination!Geralt, he doesn't like being separated from Geralt, he doesn't trust humans, he's working it out ok, hints to past abuse (nothing explicit), jaskier gets ANGRY, jaskier gets a horse, jaskier is trans because i said so, jaskier straight up kills a dude, jaskier's inner monologue is just endless sarcasm, lots of blood, lots of knives, lots of running, morally ambiguous OC, no beta we burn like Cintra, no beta we die like renfri, observant Jaskier, several wooden crates were harmed in the making of this story, sword fights, tea time with a witch, what can I say he's a free bird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 105,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24300946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoachIsJudgingYou/pseuds/RoachIsJudgingYou
Summary: Geralt’s pissed off the wrong noble this time. They’ve hardly stepped foot in the city before they’re dragged unceremoniously to his front door, and when Geralt refuses the contract, things get messy quickly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: glitter and gold [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767328
Comments: 391
Kudos: 693





	1. Contract

**Author's Note:**

> The muse has struck again! Those who have read my previous two fics might remember my mentioning that something was in the works; this is that fic! I’m not sure how often I’ll be updating, but I actually have a plan now (shocking, I know), so I have an idea of where this one is heading. I’m channeling some bastard combination of book, game, and netflix!Geralt in this fic, so he’s not just going to be a grunting himbo in this one, much to the disappointment of many. I enjoy stupid idiot himbo Geralt as much as the next guy, but he won't be found here. At least not yet. I hope y’all enjoy, and as always kudos and comments are much appreciated! They give me some sense of purpose in the self-isolation void.

This was not at all how Jaskier had pictured their evening going. Two years of traveling with the White Wolf of Rivia, and he’d stupidly thought he’d seen it all. He was already composing his next hit as they were escorted by armed guards to the city center.

_ Rhyme guard with bard? Too kitschy? Maybe-- _ his musings were interrupted when Geralt hissed at him to shut up.

The witcher was positively vibrating with fury. Jaskier could only tell because he’d quickly become adept at picking up on his moods. At first, it had been a matter of survival; that little love tap he’d gotten on the first day he’d met Geralt was nothing compared to his full strength, and Jaskier had the sense that the next time he pissed off the witcher, he wouldn’t be so gentle. So he’d taken to learning as much as he could about Geralt’s tells. 

And learn, he had. He’d quickly discovered that it was wise to back off and shut up when the muscle in Geralt’s jaw jumped, as it was doing now. He’d learned that the witcher kept the smallest smiles on reserve for Roach, and on the  _ very  _ rare occasion that he managed to do something to amuse him, Jaskier. He could tell when Geralt was becoming tired, because he would lose focus and his pupils would slip back to their natural cat-like shape. If he was caught staring at those eyes, Geralt would correct himself and promptly shut down for the rest of the day. He’d learned through Geralt’s half-serious offhand comments to clients and enemies alike that he actually  _ did  _ possess sharp fangs, ones that he kept filed down to ease the fear of the humans he relied on for coin. He’d learned, on one  _ memorable  _ occasion, when he’d woken up before Geralt and promptly spiraled into a panic because he couldn’t see the witcher breathing, that their internal functions were  _ much  _ slower than that of a normal human. It had taken him hours to slow his own racing heart.

And speaking of racing hearts.

The rapid  _ thud-thud-thud  _ of his own traitorous heart as they were paraded through the crowded city streets brought him back to the present. They’d no more than entered the city gates (though the term  _ gate  _ had been a bit generous, it was more like a sad fence, Jaskier thought) before they’d been accosted by armed men with zip for explanation and threats of death. Geralt, for his own part, had remained at least outwardly calm. He had graced the men with an exaggerated roll of his eyes and a resigned nod. He’d shot Jaskier a pointed glare that clearly said  _ let me do the talking.  _ For once, Jaskier had felt no inclination to disagree. He had a suspicion that this wasn’t the first time Geralt had been subjected to such tactics, and it left a sour taste in his mouth to think about it. Between the familiar buzz of adrenaline and his fury at the implications of Geralt’s resignedness, he doubted he would be much help in the talking department. Better to leave it to the expert.

They received no small amount of stares from the townspeople as they passed by. Jaskier had to assume that armed escorts such as this one were an uncommon occurrence in the city, which he had not bothered to learn the name of. He’d quickly taken on Geralt’s attitude of ‘a town is a town’ and found that he could complete his mission without ever bothering to learn the details of their location (the only exception to this was of course when they were met with unexpected kindness--then Jaskier was certain to take note of such trivialities). Though now, he was promising himself to learn the name of this particular charmer so as to make sure they  _ never  _ returned. Really, it was quite rude. The guards hadn’t even bothered to provide an explanation for their behavior, just accosted the pair--and Roach--to drag them to some undisclosed location.

Jaskier huffed and blew a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. They were drawing closer to the wealthy district now, it seemed, because the people’s garb had suddenly changed from worn and dirty to luxurious and colorful. They looked down their noses in disdain at the witcher or completely ignored the display. Jaskier had to fight the urge to make faces at the townspeople as they passed. Geralt elbowed him discreetly, picking up on his twitchiness. 

“It won’t do us any good to stir up trouble, bard.” He growled, low enough that only Jaskier could hear him.

“Do you know what they want?” He hissed back, not looking at the witcher as he spoke.

“No. But this isn’t entirely uncommon.” There was that bitter note of resignation in his voice, and Jaskier was struck with the strange urge to hug the witcher. He’d tried that once, though, and it hadn’t gone over well. 

He’d become oddly defensive of Geralt since their encounter with the elves; he’d always been skeptical of the rumors that often circulated about witchers, and the way Geralt had handled the situation in Posada had confirmed his suspicions. Very rarely did they deserve the spite they were treated with. 

He hadn’t worked up the nerve to ask Geralt about Blaviken yet, but he would get the real story eventually. People had a nasty habit of twisting things. He supposed he should know; he was guilty of it himself.

A large, fortress-like stone structure loomed at the end of the street they were walking on. Banners stood atop the turrets, waving in the late summer wind, but Jaskier couldn’t make out the colors. He knew they were still in Redania, and not too far from the coast, but aside from that vague bit of information he was lost. If Geralt recognized the flags, he gave no indication. 

It wasn’t long before they stood in front of the massive (and, Jaskier thought, frankly pretentious) set of wooden doors that opened into the fortress. They came to a sudden halt, and the guards half-lowered their weapons in a clear caution: don’t try anything. Jaskier eyed the sharp ends of their spears and found that he had no desire to make a break for it.

Without warning, there was a loud bang like a lock being shifted, and the doors creaked open slowly. If Jaskier hadn't been at the business end of some nasty looking weapons, he thought he might’ve been able to appreciate the theatrics. 

The man who came through the doors wasn’t quite what either of them had expected. An unassuming, unremarkable man of medium height and build emerged from the shadows. He wore fine robes, made of the highest quality material, but mostly unadorned. He carried himself with an air of importance. The jovial expression on his face dropped quickly when he saw the weapons pointed at Geralt and Jaskier. When he spoke, they weren’t sure if he was addressing them or himself.

“Oh, dear. This wasn’t the impression I was hoping to make. Guards, lower your weapons immediately! These are my esteemed guests, not common prisoners!” He waved them away haughtily, and finally seemed to realize that he hadn’t introduced himself. 

“Greetings, gentlemen! I am Lord Albert Campbell. I am in charge of this city.” He stooped into a low curtsy, and Geralt shot a confused sideways look at Jaskier, eyes wide and brow furrowed. Jaskier shrugged back, shaking his head. Who was he to guess at the oddity of nobles? While he was technically a viscount himself, he had long ago abandoned that lifestyle. Geralt’s mask of indifference visibly slipped back into place as the lord straightened up to his full height.

“Why did you bring us here?” Geralt’s voice was surprisingly even, given how irritated he was.

“Ah, a man of action. Straight to the point. I can appreciate that. Why don’t you join me inside and we can discuss?” A crowd was gathering nearby, attracted by the commotion of the guards. Campbell gestured to the shadowy interior, a vaguely pained look on his face. Geralt didn’t budge--it was suspicious enough that he had chosen to greet them personally, rather than send someone out to collect them.

“No. Not until I know why.” Something irritated sparked briefly in the lord’s expression, but it was quickly smothered under a facade of gracious understanding. Jaskier narrowed his eyes. Geralt had clearly seen it as well, his hand imperceptibly twitching towards the hilt of his sword. Jaskier allowed himself a moment of pride. He wasn’t completely useless.

“I have a contract for you, if you must know. But it is of an exceedingly sensitive matter, and I  _ must  _ ask that we continue our discussion away from prying eyes.” A bit of tension released from Geralt’s shoulders, and he nodded his consent. His hand kept twitching towards his sword, but he allowed the noble to lead them into the bowels of the castle. 

But while he had been hesitant to follow the lord into the depths of his estate, he was more reluctant to part from Roach when they reached the stables. But he couldn’t very well deny the lord when he hadn’t done anything yet to outright offend them. Slowly, almost as if it pained him, he handed off Roach’s reins with the promise of excessive bodily harm if she didn’t receive the best care they had to offer. The servant who took her paled considerably at the colorful descriptions Geralt provided and nodded weakly. Jaskier offered an apologetic smile as they walked away, but he wasn’t sure if she actually saw it. 

Lord Campbell walked a good two paces in front of them, his gait hurried and nervous. The halls of the fortress were uncomfortably dark and cold, with only the occasional oil lamp along the corridors providing light. As they walked, Jaskier took note that they had yet to pass a single servant. He raised an eyebrow at Geralt, who nodded stiffly. Jaskier’s gaze drifted downwards and he was slightly alarmed to notice that the witcher’s grip had tightened on his sword belt. 

Ever perceptive of Geralt’s intuition, took a moment to remember if he had put his dagger in his boot that morning. When he focused, he found that he could feel it’s comforting weight next to his ankle. 

“Not a fan of company?” Geralt asked, his tone deceptively light. In front of them, Campbell’s steps faltered almost imperceptibly.

“Many of my servants have left, yes. It was for the same reason that I had my guards bring you here. I must apologize for their rudeness; I realize now that I was not clear enough in my instruction.” They finally emerged into a well-lit chamber, where a small but bountiful feast had been laid out. A large ham, several types of fowl, and copious amounts of fruits were spread across the table. Two pitchers of mulled wine rested on either end, and a candelabrum sat in the middle of the setup.

“I was just about to sup--if you are so inclined, you may join me.” It was phrased as an invitation, but any tactful guest could figure out well enough that there was little option in the matter. Geralt pursed his lips and took the seat Campbell had indicated. Jaskier sat across from him, eyeing the food with poorly-disguised enthusiasm. Geralt rolled his eyes again, allowing a small smile to cross his face as he caught sight of Jaskier’s face.

“Go on, dig in. No use in dallying on formalities, you’ve already seen the state of my castle.” Jaskier wasted no time in filling his plate, and before long he was happily inhaling the offered food. Geralt took a bit longer to give in to the invitation, eyeing the layout with suspicion. Campbell noticed and laughed.

“It wouldn’t do me much good to poison the witcher I’m about to ask for help. I assure you, it is safe to eat.” Geralt hummed doubtfully, but began filling his plate. Jaskier watched the tense interaction, his mouth full. 

Geralt took a forkful of potatoes and sniffed it warily before deeming it acceptable. The lord had been observing him with trepidation, but he relaxed fully when Geralt ate.

“Now, for the reason I’ve brought you here. You seem like a man who doesn’t like to waste time, so I’ll get right to it.” Jaskier opened his mouth to point out the time they had wasted outside the doors and navigating to the dining room, but Geralt sent him a simmering glare that silenced him. Jaskier closed his mouth and sheepishly mused that it probably wasn’t tactful to anger the man who was currently feeding them.

“As you’ve already noticed, most of my staff have vacated their positions. I can’t say that I begrudge them for that. You see,” he paused dramatically, “I’m being targeted by an assassin.” Geralt raised an eyebrow, and Jaskier could see him already formulating his polite but firm denial of the contract. Geralt didn’t  _ do  _ contracts that meant getting involved in the messy affairs of humans. Jaskier had the sense that that particular philosophy had come from experience, but he had never pressed for details. He started shoveling food into his mouth with renewed vigor, aware that they were probably about to make a swift exit.

“I’ve already had to send my wife and children away, as their lives were endangered by sheer proximity to myself. Almost all of my servants have left, and I’ve been forced to raise the wages of those remaining to obscene amounts to convince them to stay.” Jaskier internally scoffed; he doubted that the nobleman had hurt for coin a day in his life. Geralt chewed his potatoes thoughtfully and said nothing. 

“A good portion of my personal guard have vacated their positions as well. The ones who remain are the bravest of the bunch, and even they only stay because the assassin doesn’t seem to bother with them. Twice now, I’ve narrowly escaped death. It is for these reasons that I would like to hire you to catch the assassin and find who sent him after me.” Geralt sighed heavily, preparing himself for the anger that was about to follow his next statement. He laid down his silverware and wiped his hands on his napkin. 

“All due respect, Lord Campbell, but I don’t take contracts that don’t involve monsters--the kind that can only be killed with silver. I’m sorry about your situation, but I must turn you down.” 

Silence reigned for a moment, the lord keeping his face carefully blank. Jaskier watched, riveted, his fork forgotten halfway to his mouth. Some sort of unspoken struggle for dominance was happening between the two men. Finally, Campbell sighed and slapped his knees.

“Ah, well. I thought it would be worth asking. I have heard rumors of your Witcher code, but I had held out hope that they were just that--rumors. I won’t begrudge you for holding to it.” Geralt leaned back in his seat, preparing to leave.

“Please, do not feel as though you are unwelcome! I have invited you into my home; the very least I can offer for your troubles is this meal and a place to spend the night.” Geralt stilled, suspicious. He knew that humans could be volatile, and this man in particular had been sending mixed signals all night. Still, he was tired, and the hopeful look on Jaskier’s face had already made his decision for him. Entirely unhappy with the prospect of sleeping in a potentially hostile environment, he found himself acquiescing too easily. Jaskier smiled brightly.

After an uncomfortable lull in the conversation, Campbell picked his silver back up and some of the tension seemed to leave his posture.

“So, witcher,” the lord began conversationally, “you are, of course, the one from the song? Or are there multiple white-haired witchers traversing the Continent?” Jaskier nearly choked on his food, surprised by the sudden change of topic. He glanced up from his plate with wide eyes, just barely catching the way his companion’s lips had pressed into a thin line. Geralt forced a smile onto his face and nodded stiffly. 

“Then, is it safe to assume that this man is the endlessly talented bard who wrote Toss a Coin?” Jaskier perked up immediately, all thoughts of danger quickly dissipating.

“One and the same! Jaskier the traveling bard, at your service.” He made an awkward attempt at a bow while simultaneously taking a bite of the boiled vegetables. Campbell laughed loudly, abrasively, and took a bite of his own meal.

Geralt scoffed and focused on his plate, unconvinced by the act.

“Traveling together, you two must have become close, yes?” Jaskier nodded enthusiastically in reply.

“Quite,” he mumbled through a mouthful, “he pretends to hate me, but we both know that I’m his very best friend in the whole wide world. Isn’t that right, Geralt?” Geralt hummed noncommittally and discreetly kicked Jaskier under the table. Jaskier met his eyes, confused, but took the hint.

“Best friend, you say? Quite unusual for a witcher to have a traveling companion, let alone one he considers a friend. Especially a witcher carrying a title like  _ the Butcher.” _ Campbell gave Geralt a considering look, as if he were trying to figure something out. Geralt immediately bristled, fighting to remain calm. Jaskier, ever observant, quickly deflected.

“I must say, Lord Campbell, this ham is positively  _ decadent.  _ What’s in this, rosemary? Sage?” Campbell visibly shook himself, turning to speak to Jaskier again. 

“That would be the fine work of my cook, Tess. She’s a gem, that one.”

“I would  _ love  _ to give my compliments to the chef. She’s outdone herself.” 

“I’m afraid she’s already gone home for the evening.” Campbell said, sounding almost painfully disinterested. Jaskier yawned theatrically and stretched his arms. 

“Ah well, that’s alright I suppose. Besides, it really has been quite a long day for the both of us. The Path can get tiring. I hope you don’t think me rude, but I imagine we’d both like to retire for the evening.” He shot a glance at Geralt, who was holding his fork with a white-knuckled grip and seemingly trying to burn a hole through the ham through sheer willpower. He didn’t respond to Jaskier’s pointed statement. Jaskier flashed the lord a tight smile and kicked Geralt in the shin. 

_ “Geralt,”  _ he hissed through clenched teeth, “you look  _ tired.  _ I was just saying, maybe we should  _ go  _ to  _ bed?”  _ The witcher dropped his fork and nodded in agreement.

“Yes. Exhausted.” He didn’t have to put much effort into the act; they’d been on the road without a stop for supplies for over a week. Campbell didn’t seem put off by their strange interaction, and nodded agreeably.

“I must concur. I am also tired--it can get quite stressful, watching one’s back all the time. Aldwin can show you to your room, and I’ll see to it that there’s a bath brought up as well.” As he spoke, he gestured to a slight man hovering in the entry to the dining room. Upon hearing his name, he waved them over silently and led them away. 

He, like Lord Campbell, walked quickly and with an air of urgency. It seemed that no one who lived in the castle was keen on spending too much time in its dark corridors. With the threat of an assassin, Jaskier couldn’t blame them. 

Finally, they stopped in front of a door and Aldwin opened it for them. Geralt noted sourly that there was a lock on the door, but it at least seemed to be operated from the inside. 

“Gentlemen, your quarters. I will bring hot water for the bath shortly.” He left them with a terse nod, and shut the door. Geralt turned around and observed their surroundings. They were on the second story of the castle, and the sounds of wind whistled through the windows which had lost their seal from years of weathering. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and two beds situated beside each other sat across from it. There was a small table in the corner, topped with another pitcher of mulled wine and a couple of chairs. On the other side of the room sat a large wooden bathtub, empty for the moment. Two towels lay draped across the edge. 

“Well, he certainly had this set up rather quickly. Must have been pretty hopeful that you would take the contract.” Jaskier noted. Geralt hummed, not quite trusting the comfortable setup they had been given. Jaskier smirked and elbowed him gently.

“Come on, Geralt. It’s not every day we get a private room with two beds. Two beds! Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth, hm?” Geralt was still unconvinced. He stalked around the room, scenting the air for anything suspicious and looking into every nook and cranny. After ten or so minutes of this display, the witcher straightened up and began unbuckling the straps of his armor. 

“Melitele’s tits, you are paranoid.” Jaskier muttered, stripping off his own shirt. 

“Paranoia has saved me from harm many times, bard. It would do you some good to develop some.” Jaskier huffed at that, but relented. He wasn’t entirely unobservant--he’d seen the way the lord’s eyes had narrowed shrewdly every time he’d interacted with Geralt. And the jab about the Butcher had been calculated, targeted. He was certain that there was some ulterior motive in allowing them to spend the night, but the lord seemed fairly harmless, if a bit foolish to poke a witcher where it hurt. People became strange when they were frightened. And besides, Geralt could take on an entire nest of drowners without batting an eye--what could one lord possibly do to threaten such a force?

A gentle rap on the door announced that the bathwater had arrived, and Jaskier moved to open the door. Geralt was across the room in a second, pushing the bard’s hand away from the door before he could touch the doorknob. Jaskier only raised his hands in surrender, walking away and shaking his head. 

“You try to help out around the place…” Geralt rolled his eyes (it had become somewhat of a bad habit since he’d met Jaskier) and opened the door cautiously. Aldwin looked up at him, unimpressed, and pushed past him with two large buckets of water. Geralt stepped aside, taken aback at the lack of fear, while Jaskier smirked from the table. Two more servants followed, and after a few trips, the bath was full.

“Thank you.” Geralt growled, and Aldwin graced him with a terse nod before disappearing back into the shadows. 

“Seems your usual intimidation tactics don’t work very well around here.” Geralt didn’t justify the jab with a reply, returning to the buckles on his armor. He would need to get it replaced soon; it consisted more of stitches than leather at this point and the straps had become fickle enough that he was often thoroughly disgruntled by the time he had removed it all. Jaskier, sensing impending frustration, quickly crossed the room to help.

“Let me, you great oaf. I’ve watched you do it enough.” Geralt stilled, suddenly uncomfortable with the lack of space between them. He couldn’t argue though, it was always easier to let the bard’s nimble fingers take care of the armor; it would take him twice as long to remove it all, by which point the bath would already be cold. Usually, Jaskier wasn’t naked from the waist up when he helped, that was all. 

While the bard wasn’t built like a brick shithouse in the same way that he was, Geralt couldn’t help but notice that he was toned underneath the rich silk doublets and shirts he usually wore. He supposed Jaskier couldn’t have made it as long as he had before he’d met Geralt without knowing how to hold his own on his travels. 

“Careful, Geralt. Stare too long and someone might notice.” Jaskier teased. Geralt felt his face warm at the comment, having been caught out. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring, or how long the bard had been aware of it. Jaskier chuckled lightly and moved behind him to reach the rest of the straps. His ears had turned red, he just  _ knew  _ it. He shifted uncomfortably, throwing the last of the beaten armor to the floor and bending over to unlace his boots.

“No shame in looking, Geralt. After all, I  _ am  _ a perfect example of the ideal male body.” He flexed mockingly, posing in as ridiculous a fashion as he could. Geralt threw a boot at him with a crooked smile, and the tension dissipated. 

“Get in the bath, bard. It’s getting cold.” Jaskier stuck his tongue out and stripped out of the rest of his clothes, lowering himself into the hot water with a delighted sigh.

_ “Oh,  _ Geralt, this is lovely. You might regret missing out on the hot water.” He didn’t sound even a bit remorseful.

_ “Igni,  _ remember?” He sighed in response, settling into one of the chairs and pouring himself a cup of wine. 

“Damn useful, those witchery signs of yours. Mind bringing me some?” Jaskier asked, nodding hopefully at the pitcher.

“Couldn’t bother to get some before you got in the tub?” He was already pouring another cup as he spoke, and he shoved it unceremoniously into his hands before returning to his chair.

“It’s more fun to order you around.” Jaskier sang, taking a large gulp of his wine with a wink whose effect was ruined when he gagged at the sickening sweet flavor of his drink. Not usually one to turn down sweet things, he was surprised at how much the taste appalled him. 

Geralt scoffed and propped his legs on the other chair, trying not to smile at the way the bard made a production out of how much he hated the new wine. He had not often been subjected to the bard’s more flamboyant theatrics, the young man having usually been tired out by the time he settled down on his bedroll or made it back to their room. Jaskier flirted with everything under the sun, and in the absence of their usual company of pretty men and women in whatever local tavern they might have ended up in, he seemed to have chosen Geralt as his target for the night. Typical. He threw back two more glasses of wine before filling another up to savor. 

A log in the fire cracked and settled into coals. Jaskier scrubbed the dirt from their travels off of his skin and washed his hair quickly before emerging from the bath. Geralt raised an eyebrow at the unusual behavior--Jaskier was never one to pass up the opportunity for a good soak. 

“Don’t look at me like that. How in Melitele’s name am I supposed to relax when you’re sitting over there, fidgeting and glancing at the door every five seconds like someone is going to burst through it at any moment? Besides, I wouldn’t want you to waste any energy on warming it back up when I can just as easily get out.” Geralt finished off his drink and stripped out of his dirty clothes, shaking his head at the bard the whole time.

“It’s my  _ job  _ to be paranoid, bard. Forgive me for covering our asses.” 

_ “Neither _ of our asses are covered, Geralt.” 

He swept his gaze pointedly up and down the witcher’s now naked form. Geralt threw his towel in his face, shaking his head. Nudity was nothing new for either of them--traveling together for the better part of two years left very little to the imagination. Jaskier only laughed and dried off quickly. Towel now wrapped around his waist, he settled in front of the fire as Geralt lowered himself into the water. 

“Do you really think it’s not safe for us to be here?”

Geralt lifted his head from the edge of the tub, cracking open an eye in question.

“Do I actually need to answer that question?” He scoffed. Jaskier hummed, knowing the answer. 

“Alright, then. We can leave first thing tomorrow. We don’t even need to see Campbell. We’ll fetch Roach, and hightail it out of here before sunrise. That work for you?” Geralt hummed in agreement. 

“I would offer to wash your hair, but something tells me you don’t want to let your guard down tonight.” Something that sounded suspiciously like a longing sigh came from the bath, and Jaskier smiled. 

“Don’t worry, next town I’ll make sure to find us an inn that doesn’t set your witchery senses off. Hopefully a good contract will materialize, too.”

Geralt didn’t respond, and Jaskier looked over to see that he had fallen asleep...in the tub. Concern warring with amusement, he stood up quickly and was nearly knocked over by a wave of dizziness. Now thoroughly alarmed, he looked over quickly to the pitcher, which Geralt had finished off almost entirely by himself. He’d had only a bit of his own wine before deciding that it was too sweet for his own tastes. There must have been something in it.

It was just as he came to this conclusion that the door opened quietly, and he looked up to see two armed and rather intimidating men. They spotted Geralt first, out cold in the tub. Jaskier glanced at his boots, still by the foot of the bed where he had left them. Heart hammering in his chest, he weighed his chances at reaching his boot knife before they realized he was awake. 

The odds were not at all in his favor. Even if he  _ did  _ somehow manage to reach his knife and fend the two very scary men off, all without creating enough noise to send more running, there was the incredibly difficult task of waking Geralt up, or worse, being forced to  _ carry  _ the much heavier man out of the castle unaided.  _ And  _ he would need to find Roach, lest the witcher turn him inside out upon waking up and finding his beloved mare missing. He scowled, feeling like a cornered animal.

Minutes later, Jaskier found himself fully laid out on the floor, reaching as quietly as possible for his boot, biting his lip nervously. He just needed to--there! The familiar weight of the dagger settled into his palm, and he crouched down behind the bed. 

The two men were having a whispered conversation in the doorway, probably either trying to figure out where Jaskier had gone or assuming that he was passed out on the floor behind the far bed. He couldn’t be bothered to figure it out, and focused on sneaking as close as possible. 

His primary goal was to force the door shut in their faces before they realized he was awake and to lock it from the inside. If that plan succeeded, he had every intention of slapping Geralt until he woke up. If that plan failed, he would at the very least put up a good fight.

He was close enough now that he could understand their whispered words. They were arguing.

“-said there are  _ two, damn it--”  _

“Well I don’t  _ see two--”  _

Jaskier launched himself off the floor and slammed his body weight against the door, satisfied to hear a sickening  _ crunch  _ as it impacted with the nose of one of the men. A startled cry came from behind the wood, and it latched shut. With trembling hands, he turned the bolt in place and rushed over to Geralt, who was still lying prone in the tub.

_ “Geralt!”  _ No response.

“ _ Great tits, Geralt, get UP!”  _ He hissed, tapping his cheek lightly. When that failed to rouse him, Jaskier bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. He pulled his arm back, swung, and-- _ SMACK.  _

Geralt didn’t even flinch. Whatever had been put in that wine, it had been strong. It had also been subtle enough that Geralt’s sensitive nose hadn’t picked up on it, which was worrying in itself. They were dealing with someone who had both known enough about witchers to know that Geralt would refuse,  _ and  _ drug them without their knowledge. Even now, Jaskier could feel it working its way through his system. His hands were starting to go numb, gray fuzz creeping across his vision in an irritating way that he couldn’t just blink away.

There was angry shouting coming from outside the door, and Jaskier had a sneaking suspicion that his plan wouldn’t hold for long. No lord kept a locked room in his castle without a set of keys to open it. He hooked his hands under the witcher’s arms and tried pulling him up and out of the tub, but he was heavy enough that it proved to be a rather futile attempt. He only succeeded in soaking his towel. 

The sinking feeling in Jaskier’s gut told him that there was no escape from whatever plan the lord had in store for them. And he sure as hell wasn’t about to be taken prisoner wearing nothing but a damn  _ towel.  _

He stumbled over to his clothes, discarded earlier. With clumsy hands, he pulled on his pants and chemise, determined to at least meet his fate with dignity. Remembering his boot knife, he quickly pulled on his socks and boots, tucking his trusty dagger back into its usual spot. 

By this point, his vision had begun to tunnel, agonizingly slowly. He felt his legs give out underneath him, and his head hit the floor none too gently. The door opened just as he felt his eyes closing. As he lost consciousness, he had one final thought: 

_ Geralt is  _ never  _ going to let this one go.  _


	2. Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt wakes up feeling hungover, and quickly realizes that it’s a bit worse than that. Actually, a lot worse. Oh, and Jaskier’s missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Geralt’s POV. We’re getting into the action now, so hold onto your seats! Geralt says fuck a lot in this chapter, which I think is pretty on brand. Also, I like to think his internal monologue is always either Jaskier or Vesemir, depending on the situation. Enjoy, and as always please comment! It makes my day to hear from y'all, even if it’s just keysmashing.

Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hangover this bad. It had to have been at least several decades. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, and the world around him spun nauseatingly. Must’ve been some damn night. 

Only his fellow witchers had ever had the experience of getting trashed with Geralt. He never got drunk anywhere besides Kaer Morhen--mostly due to caution but also because human alcohol was notoriously difficult for witchers to get drunk off of. To get _truly_ hammered off of the humans’ booze, he would’ve had to take on quite a bit of debt.

So, he knew he was at the keep. The question was, why couldn’t he remember getting there? Fuzzy memories of a feast drifted through his head, but last he knew, it had still been late summer. He shifted miserably, muscles aching, and felt water ripple around him.

_What the fuck?_

He was cold, uncomfortably so, but his head was pounding in a way that warned in no uncertain terms that opening his eyes was unwise. There was no doubt that he was submerged in a tub of water that had long since cooled. His neck was stiffer than corpses he’d examined, the wooden rim of the tub digging unkindly into it for what had clearly been at least several hours. He sat up slowly, noting with distaste that he could _feel_ how pruned his fingertips had become. 

He needed to get out of this damn tub and put on some clothes. And also, figure out where the _fuck_ he was. Reluctantly, and painfully slowly, he cracked open his eyes and hissed when early morning sunlight assaulted him.

He opened them again, more adjusted this time, and took in his surroundings. 

Wherever the fuck he was, it certainly wasn’t Kaer Morhen.

Am _I hungover?_

He gripped the sides of the tub and heaved himself upwards, paling when his stomach rebelled angrily at the movement. He stumbled out of the water, legs trembling like a newborn foal, and teetered over to the bed nearest to him.

His clothes had been laid out for him, folded and clean. It had to be Jaskier’s doing, because only the bard would do such a thing; left to Geralt, he would have tossed the cleanest looking items on the bed to throw on after his bath. 

It was then that he noticed the loud absence of endless noise from his travel companion. He almost always woke up before the bard, hadn’t been expecting conversation, but he suddenly realized he couldn’t hear the characteristic soft snoring that accompanied Jaskier’s sleep.

Moving slowly-- _too slowly,_ he thought with frustration _\--_ he dressed and tried to piece together what had happened. 

They’d been escorted, rather rudely, he thought, to Lord Campbell’s castle. They’d dined, Geralt had politely declined his contract. The lord had graciously understood (and Geralt had just _known_ that it couldn’t go that smoothly, things _never_ went smoothly), and offered them a room for the night to make up for the trouble. 

And now the bard was missing, and he couldn’t remember anything after entering their room. Jaskier’s things appeared to be in their proper place, hadn’t been rummaged or otherwise. Geralt took a moment to investigate his own items and found that they hadn’t been disturbed either. 

Cautiously scenting the room, as his stomach was still trying valiantly to empty itself, he wrinkled his nose when he recognized the acrid scent of fear, _Jaskier’s fear,_ permeating the room overwhelmingly. His slow heart picked up its pace, just a little bit. Jaskier was stupidly difficult to scare, and the fact that it smelled _this_ strong was a testament to what had happened.

Geralt had clearly passed out in the tub, and Jaskier had clearly realized something was wrong, as the clothes he had been wearing the previous day were missing, along with his boots. Notably, his boot knife was also missing, which was something of a comfort to the witcher. 

The pitcher sat empty on the table across the room, and finally the pieces clicked into place. The wine had been drugged, subtly enough that even his sensitive nose hadn’t picked up on it. He stalked over to the table and took a deep whiff, trying to detect even the faintest trace of poison.

There was nothing. He huffed in irritation and slammed the pitcher back onto the table. He pulled his boots on in a rush, still unsteady from whatever had knocked him out, and suddenly realized that his swords were missing.

 _“Dammit!_ Fucking fantastic! The _fuck_ am I supposed to do without my _fucking_ swords?” His fingers curled into fists and he fought the temptation to punch something. His internal voice, sounding suspiciously like a certain bard, chided him.

 _Really, Geralt, is that the_ best _you can do? You have an entire_ beautiful _language worth of words at your disposal, and you said_ fuck _three times in one breath. Look around. Did they take your boot knife? I_ know _you have one._

Geralt growled, reaching into his boot to find that his silver dagger remained untouched. At least one thing hadn’t gone wrong. While it wasn’t his swords, he could still do an ungodly amount of damage with the small blade.

He went to test the door and was met with resistance. Of course, the lock hadn’t been for their peace of mind. They should have vacated the castle as soon as he had noticed the lock, but he’d allowed himself to be complacent for Jaskier’s sake--the bard had been so tired, and the food had made him lax. A mistake he was determined not to repeat, if they made it out of this.

The stench of two unfamiliar humans and blood became noticeable at the door. The smell was alarming, but it wasn’t the bard’s. He’d fought in some capacity, at least. Geralt growled in frustration and paced the room, ignoring the pounding ache of his head. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he walked, feeling useless. He had known the lord had been fishing for information when he had started asking questions; Geralt hadn’t survived nearly a century in the world by being a fool. If only he had realized the motive behind them, then maybe they would have fled before things had gotten so out of hand.

He could only draw one conclusion from their separation; the lord was going to use Jaskier to coerce him into taking the contract. He had no desire to meddle in the affairs of humans, but it seemed like he was doomed to get mixed up in them no matter how hard he tried to avoid them. And now his only friend was involved. He shouldn’t have gotten so attached to the damn bard. Having friends, people you cared about, was a liability in his line of work. Thanks to his carelessness, he wasn’t the only one in danger. 

He was certain the bard could hold his own. Jaskier was by no means a fool, however much he pretended to be; he possessed plenty of useful and dangerous abilities. After all, he’d been a traveling bard before he’d met the witcher. Geralt got the sense that he enjoyed the shock factor of revealing his odd set of skills only when absolutely necessary. He didn’t know much about Jaskier’s past, but it was clear that he hadn’t always had such a simple life. 

Geralt growled, seating himself on the very edge of the bed. His stomach flipped again and he ground his teeth together in an effort to keep himself from vomiting.

He hated not knowing things. He hated not knowing if Jaskier was ok. He could still only remember snippets of the night before. The mostly full cup on the floor next to the fireplace answered exactly none of his questions. Had Jaskier drank any of the wine? Or had he realized something was wrong before he’d had any? Had he managed to get out any word of warning to the bard before he fell unconscious in the bath?

His musings were interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside. Geralt could see a shadow underneath the door. He stood up, adrenaline quickly flooding his bloodstream. A nasal voice spoke, laced with disgust. 

“Geralt of Rivia. I have orders to retrieve you and escort you to the dining hall. You are not to attempt escape; we have your bard. If any misfortune befalls me, he will receive matching injuries, blow for blow. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” He replied, just barely restraining himself growling. The door opened, and a tall, oily man stood outside. Two armed guards stood just behind him, expressionless. Nearly trembling with rage, but determined not to give anything away, he stalked towards them. 

Sniffing with disdain, the man who had spoken turned around and marched down the hall. The guards waited until Geralt had passed them before flanking him, forcing his arms behind his back. Geralt prickled at the manhandling but did not react.

Geralt did his best to memorize the maze of hallways he was led through, but his head was still muddled from whatever had been put in their drinks. When he stumbled, the guards shoved him none-too-kindly to speed him up. He bared his teeth at their gall, but tolerated it for Jaskier’s sake. The bard’s scent, corrupted with sour notes of fear and the tang of rage, became stronger as they neared the dining hall. They stopped in front of a set of red double doors, sturdy and aged. 

He was certain that they had been wide open the night before, as he didn’t remember them at all. They opened, and he was led to the table they had dined at the night previously. He could smell Jaskier, strong enough that he was certain he was in the vicinity, but couldn’t see him anywhere.

Lord Campbell was seated in the same spot he’d been the night before, and Geralt might’ve thought he hadn’t moved if it weren’t for the change in robes. He greeted the witcher with a bright smile and gestured to the seat across from him.

“Geralt! Please, sit.” Geralt’s lip twitched in irritation. Nobles had a bad habit of dressing things up in ceremony to ease their guilt.

He was shoved into the chair, the guards’ hands uncomfortably tight on his shoulders. When he was seated, they remained. 

“I feel I must apologize for this display, but certain precautions need to be taken. I do hope you understand.” Geralt didn’t reply, openly glaring at the lord. After an uncomfortable silence, Campbell motioned to the steaming plate in front of him. 

“Please, eat. I assure you that your food has not been tampered with.” Geralt raised a disbelieving eyebrow, unmoving. The hand on his shoulder tightened almost painfully, and he growled almost inaudibly.

“I understand you must be skeptical after last night. Here.” The lord swapped the half-eaten plate in front of him with Geralt’s own, untouched, and began eating. 

“Is this enough proof for you, witcher?” Geralt pursed his lips. He was not even remotely hungry, but it would do no good to anger Lord Campbell. He took his silverware and began eating, taking small bites. 

“Excellent! Onto business, then. As you might have guessed, Geralt, I am a desperate man. I am not happy about this turn of events, but I require your help and I am determined to get it. I am not accustomed to being denied.” Geralt stifled a scoff at the statement. 

“It is for these reasons that I have decided your bard will be a good incentive to get the job done. Rest assured, you will still be paid. There is only a little more persuasion involved now.” Campbell was talking about Jaskier as if he were a pawn, not a living, breathing _man._ Purposefully, he took a breath and considered his cards; if he revealed that he cared about Jaskier, it was certain that they would both be in danger. But if he played their relationship off, there was a chance that he could talk them out of the whole situation. He could _smell_ Jaskier in the room, however, and he was loath to deceive the man. Still, it was his best shot.

“You’ve misunderstood the situation, Lord Campbell. The bard has attached himself to me; you’ve done me a favor by ridding me of him. His capture will hardly be persuasive.” 

Campbell appeared unconcerned with his reply, and took a bite of his food, chewing slowly.

“Is that so? He seemed quite convinced last night that you two are very close.”

“A projection of his own feelings, I’m sure. He’s young.”

“I see. Very well. I suppose _this_ will not bother you, then?” He flicked a hand at one of the guards standing in the corner, and a small door to what he assumed was the kitchen opened. Geralt fought to keep his expression neutral as Jaskier was dragged through the opening, bound and gagged. When his eyes fixed on Geralt, something akin to relief flickered across his expression. He appeared wholly unconcerned with the whole ordeal, and Geralt was forcibly reminded of the affair with the elves in Posada. Jaskier had been so certain then that the witcher would get them out of it alive, completely at ease like he was now. However, nobles were a lot harder to empathize with than elves, and he had a feeling it would take more than a ballsy acceptance of death to convince the lord to free them. 

Campbell laid down his fork and napkin primly, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. He approached Jaskier casually, placing a hand on his shoulder in a manner that could _almost_ be companionable. Almost. Jaskier’s brow furrowed in confusion, and his gaze flickered between Geralt and the lord. 

Then Campbell sunk his fist into Jaskier’s gut. No warning. Not even a shred of remorse. Geralt watched, painfully aware that his response could determine their fate. The bard’s eyes widened and he doubled over, wheezing. Without his hands in front of him to stop the blow, he could only cough painfully. It was nothing compared to what he’d taken in the past; Jaskier was fine. He was tough. But that didn’t mean the witcher enjoyed the display.

He grit his teeth together, struggling to not react. The lord scrutinized him for any reaction. After a moment, he sighed dramatically, seemingly unsatisfied with what he saw.

“Witcher, you are making this a sight more complicated than it needs to be.” He nodded at the guards holding Jaskier and they dropped him to the floor. 

Suddenly, blow after blow was raining down on the bard, who was still visibly reeling from the first attack. Armored boots sank into his stomach, bounced off his back, left trembling limbs in their wake. Geralt tried to watch impassively, but the panicked expression on Jaskier’s face snapped whatever control he’d had.

He stood up forcefully, knocking the chair he’d been sitting in onto the floor. He shrugged the hands of the men off his shoulders, snarling. Amber irises contracted and reverted to their usual cat-like state, rage and icy fear loosening his control of his humanity. 

“Leave him! Dammit, he’s just a bard!” Before he could begin moving, several pairs of strong hands were restraining him, pulling at his arms, pinching his wrists painfully. He tried to break their grip, fighting to get to Jaskier, but it was three against one and he was still feeling the effects of the drug. 

Campbell raised his hand silently in a motion to stop, having gotten the evidence he needed. 

_“Misunderstood,_ have I? On the contrary, I think I’ve understood the situation perfectly. You care for this man, and as long as I have him you will do what I ask, or _he_ will feel the consequences.” Jaskier looked up from the floor, a combination of confusion and anger flickering across his face. Geralt bared his teeth, snarling and fighting the guards who still held him. 

“Pick him up.” Jaskier was pulled to his feet, half supported by the two men on either side of him. His legs trembled and threatened to give out on him, but he still didn’t look afraid. If anything, he looked worried about _Geralt._

 _Misguided fool,_ the witcher thought.

“Bring him to the table and unbind his hands. He will eat with us.” Geralt closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. Vesemir would be scolding him about now, he could just _hear_ it.

 _See, boy,_ this _is what happens when you allow your emotions to dictate your actions. You’ve shown your cards, and now you have to play the game. Control yourself; anger will get you nowhere._

Jaskier was dropped into the chair next to him, still wheezing. He shot Geralt what he clearly hoped was a winning smile, but it was more of a grimace. The effect was somewhat ruined by the blood on his teeth. Sometime during the assault, the gag had fallen out of his mouth and was resting around his neck. Geralt wanted to tear it off.

Jaskier, for all of his boasting about coming out of tavern brawls no worse for the wear, certainly _looked_ like he had gone a few rounds. Geralt had to wonder if the drug had the bard feeling as sick as he did. He eyed the food with trepidation, but began eating without saying a word.

“I’d like to negotiate the terms of our agreement, witcher.” Geralt hummed noncommittally and took a halfhearted bite, fully glaring at the lord.

“I expect you to catch the assassin before the next attempt on my life. I will allow you your freedom to investigate, with the understanding that if you _disappear,_ your bard will meet a rather unsavory fate.” 

The fork Geralt was holding creaked miserably as it bent. The lord raised a brow, but said nothing. Jaskier was gazing at him with that damn concern again.

“I want to know why I’m being targeted. And _who_ is targeting me.” Geralt kicked Jaskier underneath the table, trying to communicate the plan he was formulating as Campbell spoke. He jerked his thumb towards the exit, all while remaining passively interested in what the lord was saying.

“I will compensate you with an ample amount of coin, and as much food and drink as you require while you are working for me.” 

Jaskier shot him a confused glance, not fully understanding.

“My stables are yours to use, and your horse will be cared for as if it were my own.” 

Geralt could only gesture towards the door again. He held up three fingers.

“Your bard will be treated as an esteemed guest in my home, barring any surprises from you or himself.” 

Two.

“Do you understand?” 

One.

Geralt launched himself out of his seat, Jaskier quickly following suit.

“Jaskier, _run!”_ He, an uncertain look crossing his face. Geralt’s eyes had taken on a wild, animalistic gleam, pupils narrowed as his instincts kicked into high gear. 

_“Now,_ bard!” Geralt shoved him in the direction of the door as he slipped the dagger out of his boot. Jaskier, startled out of his momentary stupor, didn’t need to be told again. His feet flew across the stones, and he steadfastly ignored the throbbing of the bruises already blooming across his ribs. Geralt quickly dispatched the men who had been guarding them, knocking them unconscious with a single blow. 

Campbell shouted for backup, outraged. Ten more men burst through a side door, heavily armed. Geralt growled, aware that he was outnumbered. But if Jaskier could escape to safety, it wouldn’t matter if they caught him. He was not easily persuaded.

Jaskier could see even as he approached the doors that he would not make it before being cut off. He quickly changed courses, veering towards a side door and praying to Melitele that it wouldn’t be a dead end.

Geralt was still engaged in combat with several other guards. On a normal day, he could have easily taken them out, armor or not. But he was still fighting the nausea from earlier, and the pounding in his head had only increased in volume since he’d been dragged to the dining hall. 

A strangled yelp echoed through the room as Jaskier was bodily tackled to the ground. Geralt saw red when he heard the sound, and he charged towards the soldiers responsible without a second thought. 

_“Stop him!”_ The witcher almost didn’t hear the shout, but he _definitely_ felt the blade that impacted with his chest seconds after the words left Campbell’s mouth. With pain shoved to the back of his priorities, it was merely an irritation, but he suddenly found nearly a dozen men in his path to the bard. He didn’t hesitate to begin cutting them down, his dagger and hand becoming bloodied within moments. He whirled in place, just barely parrying the blows. The men were clearly untrained with their weapons, but the sheer number of them was enough to prove difficult. 

Distantly, he heard a familiar tenor cry out in distress, and he spun to see Jaskier being wrestled roughly into submission. His arms were roughly grabbed and pinned to his back, and he was shouting at Geralt--

“Dammit, you stubborn witcher, get _out of here--”_

“Jaskier!” He made a break towards the struggle, didn’t the idiot bard understand that he _couldn’t leave without him--_

Becoming distracted was his first mistake. He should never have taken his focus off of the men he’d been fighting, no matter how poorly trained they had been. The bard truly _was_ a liability, though Geralt couldn’t fault anyone but himself for that development.

He was rudely reminded of the fight he had abandoned by the hot burning of a blade across the back of his thigh. His leg buckled underneath him, and he fell to one knee. Grunting with effort, he jerked back around to face them. They didn’t hesitate to take advantage of his vulnerable position, descending on him and being none too shy with their attacks.

Geralt, undeterred, swung his dagger wide and caught several men across the face. Several weapons clattered to the floor, and he snatched up the first sword within reach. He stole a glance back towards Jaskier. The bard was still struggling with his own guards, but his eyes had never left the other fight. Chestnut locks fell into his face and he shouted in alarm, eyes widening. 

Geralt, taking the cue from his reaction, ducked and rolled just in time to avoid the spear that had been sailing directly towards his back. Hot blood flowed with renewed vigor down his leg, his wound protesting loudly at the mistreatment.

His sharp hearing caught the sound of a blade whistling through the air, and he threw his sword up to block the blow, arms trembling with the effort. He growled and stood up slowly, using his own weight as leverage against the man. Using his momentum, he shoved his opponent’s sword to the side and swung a fist into his jaw, sending him unconscious to the floor. 

Jaskier was shouting a number of colorful obscenities and insults behind him, and he couldn’t tell if it was from pain or anger. He took out three more guards in a span of seconds and made to run towards the bard. 

The bite of steel against his back and other leg caught him by surprise. Then, he was on the floor, knees smarting from the impact. His cheek was pressed against the cold stone, and it took him longer than he would’ve liked to admit to realize that his head had collided rather brutally with the ground. It took even longer for sound to filter back into awareness. The first thing he heard was Jaskier’s furious fighting against his captors. It seemed that, in the height of his distress, his earlier creativity had left him. Geralt fought the absurd urge to laugh when he could finally make out what he was saying.

“--let me _go,_ you-you _assholes!_ Sons-of-whores, the lot of you! Geralt! Get _up!”_

The pounding in his head had increased to nearly unbearable levels. He groaned weakly and forced his limbs to cooperate. Hissing, Geralt rose to his feet unsteadily, wincing when the matching cuts across his legs flared at the abuse. Several pairs of strong hands gripped his arms. He pulled angrily away from them, but he had been considerably weakened by the last blow and they held strong. Campbell leered from his seat at the table. During all of the commotion, he hadn’t even moved, but now he stood up slowly, mockingly.

“Very interesting, Geralt. And yet the rumors say that witchers can’t feel.” Jaskier visibly suppressed a gag, thoroughly disgusted by the display. Geralt leveled an unimpressed glare at the lord.

Suddenly, his fist was back in Jaskier’s gut, and Geralt snarled with fury. Inhuman strength surged through his muscles and he tore free of the grip of the guards, barrelling towards the lord. Jaskier’s expression passed through a range of emotions in the span of seconds, from pain, to surprise, to joy, and then to horrified alarm.

That was all the warning Geralt got before white-hot pain erupted across his back. His breath stuttered to a halt and he felt his eyes roll back as the room tilted sickeningly. Then he was back on the floor and his world had narrowed to the line of fire stretching from his shoulder to his hip. 

Jaskier looked on in undisguised horror as one of the guards decided to _throw_ his sword in Geralt’s direction. His aim was true and the blade fell across Geralt’s broad shoulders, cutting deep into the flesh. The shock on the witcher’s face quickly changed to anguish as the new wound made itself known and he collapsed unceremoniously in his tracks. 

He laid there, face down mere feet from Jaskier, and yet the bard could do nothing. The witcher’s black chemise was quickly growing darker as he bled, and witchers were resilient, but they weren’t immortal--he struggled fruitlessly against the grip of the men holding him, but there were too many. Furious shouting tore from his throat as Geralt arched on the ground, eyes squeezed shut and deaf to the world.

“You--motherfuckers! I’ll have you all in chains, the lot of you--” 

Another punch to the stomach had Jaskier silenced as well. Geralt rolled onto his side, crimson still pouring from the fresh wound, and his half-open eyes met the cornflower gaze of the bard. Jaskier felt a pang of fear tear through his body--they were not going to die for this stupid contract, Geralt wasn’t a killer, but it was better to _not be killed_ \--

“Take the witcher to the keep. And take the bard,” Campbell gestured flippantly at Jaskier, “to his room.” 

Geralt, even in his half-aware state, felt panic seize his heart with a cold fist. This was Jaskier’s only chance for escape, and it was slipping away right through his fingers.

“No--!” He choked, trying to rise to his feet.

Adrenaline surged through Jaskier’s veins, but even with the added strength he simply could not break free of his captors. Guards hauled Geralt up by his arms. His legs dangled limply underneath him, but he wasn’t unconscious yet--

“Geralt! Great goddess, _move!”_ And then the witcher was punching wildly, growling and snapping at the hands gripping him hard enough to bruise, alabaster hair whipping wildly about him as he struggled--

“ENOUGH!” The shout echoed off the hard walls of the room and all movement froze. 

The sword that had been thrown earlier, still bloody from where it had met Geralt’s back, was now in lord Campbell’s hand. He watched in sick fascination as a drop slid down the blade and landed on the collar of Jaskier’s chemise, blooming in a brilliant stain of red.The other held Jaskier’s hair in a fist, the blade pressed threateningly against the bard’s throat, just hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

Geralt paled even further than Jaskier had thought possible at the sight, frozen. Some invisible switch flipped, then, and all the fight left him. He slumped bonelessly in the grip of the men, dark resignation flickering in his eyes. Jaskier shook his head minutely, begging Geralt to keep fighting, but the witcher’s gaze told him he would not--could not--risk it. 

“That’s what I thought.” Geralt stared with cold indifference at Campbell, who tossed the sword down, smirking. He waved the guards off flippantly, and the last thing Geralt saw before they took the hilt of a sword to his head was Jaskier’s concerned face.


	3. Poet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is forced to unearth a part of himself that he’d much rather remain buried. Geralt wakes up in the dungeon, wounded and confused. Aldwin has questionable loyalties. Campbell continues to be an ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, chapter 3! I’m trying to maintain a good balance of humor and seriousness in this fic, but this chapter is a bit darker than the other two have been. 
> 
> There is a TW for a mention of a possible suicide attempt, which is marked by asterisks (****) before and after, so you can skip that section if you need to. It's only a few sentences, and you can deduce from the rest of the interaction what happened.
> 
> Campbell is a little bitch and I want to fight him even though I created him. Also, coming up with creative insults for Jaskier to use?? SO fucking hard. I’m still not really happy with what I came up with, but it’s the best I’ve got for now. I may return to this chapter later with some minor tweaks. Enjoy, and as always please comment! I love hearing from my readers :)

Jaskier wouldn’t call himself a poet. Maybe he considered himself one, but he would never _call_ himself one. That was an important distinction. Certainly, he knew plenty of poetry and he wasn’t above indulging in writing his own from time to time, in the privacy of his thoughts. But, to be honest, he found poets stuffy. Stiff. Rather pretentious. _Particularly_ self-titled poets. 

Any man who simply decided that he was a poet, rather than allowing the sentiment of the public to decide for him, thought perhaps a _teensy_ bit too highly of his own work. Humility was a virtue, after all. 

Jaskier thought that maybe Campbell would be the type of person to call himself a poet. 

He hadn’t trusted the man from the start, but it had been more of a casual distrust, the way you might distrust a shady trader in the marketplace or a barkeep who charged just a _little_ bit too much at the end of the night. He certainly hadn’t expected things to go as magnificently wrong as they had, and he hadn’t expected Campbell to be one of those special breeds of noble that was _particularly_ difficult to redeem. 

The look on Geralt’s face in the dining hall had done something funny to his heart, and he could still feel it flipping uncomfortably in his chest hours later. He’d fought so fiercely, up to the point that there had been cold steel biting uncomfortably Jaskier’s throat. All the fight had gone out of him in record time after that. 

It had been agony to watch the way he had tolerated the manhandling and abuse that the guards had subjected him to. He’d been able to do exactly nothing to stop it, could only watch in horrified amazement as the witcher had allowed himself to be subdued, never once breaking eye contact with the bard. He’d clearly been trying to communicate _something,_ but Jaskier could only guess at what it had been. And then he’d taken that hilt to his head, and he’d only been able to wince in sympathy as he’d drooped forward, out like a light. 

Jaskier had wasted no time in dredging up the most scathing words in his vocabulary, unleashing them with a lack of restraint even _he_ had found shocking. 

“You, sir, are the reason the middle finger was invented. Children weep when your shadow darkens the streets. Given the chance, I would put that sword so far up your unshapely hind end that you’d be tasting fucking metal for the rest of your days-” 

They’d silenced him pretty quickly after that. And now he was back in their room, pacing and only able to pray that the witcher was okay. 

He could already tell that boredom would be his undoing. It had been mere hours since the fight in the dining hall, and he was already itching to _do something,_ his fingers twitching restlessly. He couldn’t bring himself to play his lute, and he was too distracted to compose. He twirled his dagger aimlessly; the only good thing that had come out of this debacle so far was that they hadn’t thought to check him for weapons. He hadn’t had the chance to put the blade to good use earlier, distracted as he had been. It was possible his poor reaction time would be his saving grace. The dagger still had a chance to be put to good use.

Jaskier sat down heavily on the bed, groaning and pushing his hands through his hair. 

_Dammit, Jaskier. You’re clever, and surprisingly sneaky, given your chosen profession. And as a bard you_ know _how to be resourceful. Every escape from an enraged lover up to this point has prepared you for this. Think. Think!_

His thoughts were interrupted by a clatter outside the door. He had hardly shoved the knife back into his boot before it opened, and Aldwin entered. He eyed the man with open distrust, crossing his arms haughtily. Aldwin caught his gaze and his lips pressed into a grim line.

“Master bard. I’ve been told to ask you if you require any food or drink.” Jaskier considered saying no, but he would need to keep his strength up if there was any chance at escaping. He nodded hesitantly before interrupting himself.

“If there’s anything in my fucking food, I _will_ kill the next person who enters this room. I don’t care if it's the lord himself. Don’t think I won't.” Aldwin didn’t react, nodding tersely. They had been prepared for his response, for it was only minutes later when he returned with a platter of cheeses, cured meat, and crackers. 

“If you find this is not sufficient, you only need to utter your request at the door. The guards will ensure you are provided with whatever you desire.”

“What I _desire,_ sir, is to be released from this rat hole.” Aldwin’s gaze flickered briefly to meet his, and he thought he saw a hint of empathy there before it was quickly masked. 

“I apologize, master bard, but that is outside of my abilities. I’m afraid you will just have to make yourself comfortable.”

Jaskier scowled, feeling uncharacteristically angry. His stomach was still in knots from whatever the lord had laced their drinks with, and it was making him snippy. Well, that and the rather unfortunate situation they had gotten into. He could rival even Geralt’s grumpiness when he so desired, and he was certainly sympathizing with the seething anger that the witcher carried around now.

“What have you done with him?” He demanded, snatching a cracker from the plate and eating it with as much anger as he could muster.

“I believe Lord Campbell had him placed in a cell in the dungeon.”

“And is no one looking after his injuries?” Another cracker was demolished. Aldwin looked painfully lost for a moment before he answered.

“I believe the lord’s exact words were ‘He’s a witcher. He will survive.’ I was not asked to check on his condition.” 

Jaskier seethed. He was on his feet in a flash, one hand fisted in Aldwin’s shirt as he shoved him against the wall. The air between them buzzed with his anger.

“You’re telling me he’s been down there, _bleeding,_ without so much as a bandage?”

“I’m afraid so, master bard.” Aldwin appeared unconcerned with the bard’s outburst. Jaskier reluctantly released the man’s shirt, and he fell lightly back to his feet, pulling the collar of his garb away from his neck. Jaskier turned and paced, fists clenched and fighting the unusual urge to punch something or _someone._

“For _fuck’s_ sake!” He spat. It seemed that, in Geralt’s absence, Jaskier had begun channelling the witcher’s entire personality. He spun, jabbing his finger into the other man’s chest. 

“I’ll _tell_ you what I _desire,_ Aldwin, so listen closely. I don’t care _what_ it takes, I want Geralt patched up and the damage that those damn loons inflicted on him mended. And if there’s an issue with that, then the lord is going to have a very hard time persuading him to cooperate if there’s no bard to level the playing field.” His threat hung heavy in the air, and Aldwin managed a weak nod. 

“I’ll inform the lord.” He hastened out of the room, and Jaskier suddenly felt very drained. He settled back onto the bed, heart pounding from his outburst, and ate another cracker.

____

Half an hour later, a knock sounded at the door. It was stupid to say that a knock could sound pretentious, but somehow this one did. The door opened seconds later, and Jaskier knew without looking up that the man who entered the room was Campbell. He was flanked by two guards on either side, and Aldwin trailed close behind, flitting nervously.

************

“What’s this I hear about a threat of suicide, bard?” Jaskier said nothing, not moving from his spot next to the fireplace. He’d grown up around nobility, and knew perfectly well how to deal with them. He stared into the flames, keeping his face as neutral as possible, and spoke. 

“You must be more foolish than I first imagined, if you believe my words are a threat of suicide. No, I simply noted that you will find yourself in _quite_ the pickle if you suddenly find yourself without a bard.”

************

Campbell hummed in response, picking up a cracker from his discarded platter thoughtfully.

“You know, bard, this is a two-way operation. The witcher isn’t the only one here with things to lose.” Jaskier’s eyes narrowed dangerously, upper lip curling in disgust. He hadn’t allowed this side of his personality to surface in a _very_ long time, and the hostile expression felt foreign on his face.

“It was my understanding, _Lord Campbell,”_ and boy, he had never thought he could force such revulsion into two words--even Valdo Marx had been subject to kinder tones, “that you _need_ him. It will hardly do you any good to further damage your tools.” He repressed a shudder. His witcher was far more than a tool, but he would need to revert to coarser language to make any kind of progress with the fool in front of him.

“It seems you have a greater understanding of the complexities of higher comfort than I would expect from a traveling bard.” Jaskier crossed his arms, uncomfortable with the sudden scrutinizing gaze he had fallen under.

“You would be surprised what one learns on the Path. I’ve dealt with many men of your stock. You’re all the same--arrogant, tasteless weasels with too much money and not enough humility.”

Campbell set the cracker down and strolled closer, trailing his fingertips along the opposite bed. _Geralt’s bed,_ Jaskier thought, gritting his teeth.

The lord leaned close into his personal space, close enough that he could smell the wine on his breath. 

“Geralt will heal. But if you make good on your earlier promises, there might be some sort of accident. After all, a distressed witcher is an unpredictable witcher, and self defense is something my men are trained well in.”

Jaskier took in a barely-controlled breath. His hand was _begging_ for his dagger, to open the man’s throat like a purse and allow the blood to spill out like dozens of coins. He had never felt such a desire to see crimson flow. 

Instead, he channeled Geralt in an angry growl and jerked his chin up.

“You’ve made yourself clear.”

Campbell swept his gaze up and down the bard, as if he were appraising a piece of livestock, and nodded with satisfaction.

“I’m glad we understand each other. Have a pleasant evening.” He swept through the room, his men falling in behind him. Aldwin looked at him with something akin to apology and scurried after them. The door slammed shut and he heard the lock click as he was sealed in.

In a surge of emotion, Jaskier leapt off the bed and punched the mattress. Moments later, his dagger spun through the air and embedded itself deep in the wooden door.

____

A caravan had taken up refuge in his skull. A very loud one. As his senses filtered back in, the sharp tang of copper sat heavy on his tongue and in his nostrils, drowning out anything else and making his stomach churn. His entire body ached, throbbing miserably in time with his slow heart.

_Slow, boy._

Vesemir’s voice was back. He wasn’t sure if it was a comfort or if it just worried him more. 

_Don’t let them know you’re awake. Pay attention to your surroundings. Take stock of your injuries. What do you remember?_

Geralt was cautious to keep his breathing even. He focused on the sensations he felt; the ground was cold and hard underneath him. He was on his stomach, and judging by the awkward positioning of his limbs, he had been tossed unceremoniously down. His sense of direction was so skewed, he could only tell which way was down from the pressure of the floor against his body. He could hear water dripping somewhere, echoing enough that he knew he was in a cell. The whisper-soft patter of tiny feet on the floor told him that mice skittered about, though they gave him a wide berth. He could hear muffled voices, as if they were behind a door or around a corner. 

Gritting his teeth, he shifted his focus inward to his injuries. Judging by the nausea and rather impressive headache, he had taken a heavy blow to the head, perhaps multiple. He was most definitely concussed. Moving down, he became suddenly aware of the dull burn of a deep gash stretching from his right shoulder to his left hip. It felt like it had been caused by a sword. Then there was the matter of the twin slices across the backs of his thighs. He could feel that his trousers had gone stiff from dried blood, and he had no concept of how much time he’d already spent on the floor of his cell.

Biting back small, rather pitiful noises of discomfort, he slowly dragged his hands up, ignoring the loud clattering of irons, and pushed himself onto his side.

Everything went white for an immeasurable amount of time. He passed out again.

____

A hesitant knock sounded at the door. Jaskier jerked up from where he had been fitfully dozing. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been tossing back and forth on the bed, but the sun had fully set in that time and his instincts told him they were deep into the night. He’d been escorted twice during the day to relieve himself, and wasn’t it just _thrilling_ that it had been the highlight of his day. Aside from Campbell’s visit, of course.

It was Aldwin again, his blank expression revealing nothing. Jaskier blinked and forced his eyes to focus. He could make out the middle-aged man clearly despite the dim light (something he had always been rather proud of; it made it much easier to sneak unnoticed out of the rooms of his forbidden lovers when he wasn’t stumbling over everything and making a right fool of himself). He was holding a backpack, and for a brief moment Jaskier deluded himself into thinking that they were being released.

“I’ve come to take you to the witcher, master bard. It seems that we have no healers on hand in the castle.” His hope quickly dissolved. Jaskier resisted rolling his eyes; he could not be picky about his blessings. This was better than he could have hoped for. The restless shifting of the man in front of him had told him that there was a high likelihood Lord Campbell had not been involved in the decision, but he would not press his luck by asking questions. He rose silently and gestured at the door.

“After you, then.”

The castle was even more unsettling at night than it had been during the day. Without Geralt’s warm presence by his side, he was hyper aware of every sound, every movement within the halls. Aldwin seemed even more pressed than usual about his current task; he was speeding along at a pace that Jaskier could almost describe as frantic. He seemed to be on guard for something, and the bard had to literally bite his tongue to stop himself from interrogating the man. It was clear he was taking a risk.

They descended down a set of stairs, and Jaskier wrinkled his nose as the scent of mildew and blood assaulted his nose. The sound of water dripping echoed through the stairwell. He was certain that the coppery scent was Geralt’s, unless the lord made a habit of taking other prisoners and spilling their blood. 

As they reached the end of the staircase, Jaskier was suddenly aware of the sound of pained breathing. It was quiet, and he had the sense that if his ears weren’t trained to hear the most minute differences in tone from years of playing his lute, he might not have heard it. Aldwin didn’t seem to notice. 

They rounded the corner, and Geralt’s cell came into view. 

It was dark, but the moonlight filtering through the clearstory window at the top of his cell provided enough light that Jaskier could see. His witcher was in a bad way. He was lying face-down on the stones, his head turned at an uncomfortable angle. The guards had deemed shackles necessary, even though it was clear from his current state that he would not be going anywhere in a hurry. Even in the dark, the bard could see the dark pool of blood around the witcher’s torso. If the labored breathing hadn’t already told him that Geralt was alive, he might’ve thought they were too late.

“Let me in. Please,” he grabbed Aldwin’s arm, animosity temporarily forgotten. The man produced a set of keys from one of his sleeves and hastily unlocked the door, sensing Jaskier’s desperation.

The bard knelt next to Geralt, trying to ignore the sensation of cooled blood soaking into his trousers. It seemed like the bleeding had partially stopped, but crimson still flowed sluggishly from the largest cut across his back. He called quietly to Aldwin, hand outstretched for the bag of supplies, and went to work tugging the witcher’s shirt up and away from his wounds.

____

There was nothing peaceful or gradual about the second time he awoke. There were hands on his back, pulling at his shirt. Gentle though they were, the painful tugging of dried blood where they were trying to separate the fabric from his wounds had been enough to pull him out of the deepest depths of unconsciousness. 

A he hissed weakly through his teeth, pride outweighed by agony.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry--I have to get this damned shirt out of the way so I can see what they did to you…” That voice sounded achingly familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Something so warm sounded too out of place in the cell he was in. 

“Who…?” 

The hands paused in their work, suddenly hesitant. He could feel them fluttering over his quivering back. 

“Geralt. It’s me. Jaskier.”

Oh. The bard. _That_ couldn’t be good. Bards and cold jail cells didn’t mix.

Well, he mentally amended--maybe in Jaskier’s case they did. He’d found himself in precarious situations enough that Geralt was sure he’d found himself in a cell a time or two. No, that wasn’t the issue. He didn’t belong in a place where the stench of blood was enough to make him feel ill. And his voice certainly had _no_ business sounding that worried.

“Jask’r?” His tongue refused to cooperate. He hoped that the bard could interpret--after all, he’d gotten quite good at understanding his nonsensical grunts. _Actual_ words, no matter how garbled they were, couldn’t be near as difficult as that.

“Good, at least your brains haven’t been scrambled.” He murmured, returning to his fruitless attempts at removing his shirt. Chains rattled and the bard growled irritably. The sound was unfamiliar to Geralt, but he found it rather cute.

He must have lost more blood than he’d realized, if he was thinking like that.

“Aldwin, I need warm water. The blood has dried to his shirt and I can’t get to his wounds. Also, take these _infernal_ chains off so I can work.” Quiet pattering followed the command. Geralt had never heard Jaskier use such a frigid tone before. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, but something warm bloomed in his chest at the urgency behind it.

Different hands, slightly colder, lifted his hands and unlocked the irons. His joints ached in thanks, and then the presence of another person faded.

The tugging at his shirt dimmed somewhat as tiredness beckoned him. His world felt strangely gray, even though he hadn’t opened his eyes. Time meant nothing. He felt his jaw go slack again.

“Ohoho, no you don’t! None of that now, Geralt. This will become _quite_ boring if I have to work on you without your boorish grunts to keep me company. And you _know_ how I get when I’m bored.” Geralt could nearly hear the tense smile. There was a pinch at his cheek, and he growled with as much intimidation as he could muster.

“That’s better. Don’t go falling asleep on me now. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

Shuffling footsteps descended down the stairs, and he tensed automatically, wounds screaming in protest. This was it, they’d been caught.

“Ah, thank you.” His sharp hearing picked up on the telltale slosh of water. Jaskier laid a warm palm on his uninjured shoulder.

“Geralt, I’ve a feeling this won’t be pleasant, but I _need_ to get your shirt off.” Geralt nodded wearily, wincing when it pulled at the gash.

“Here we go,” Jaskier poured as gently as he could, but it didn’t help. The witcher nearly bit clean through his lower lip trying not to shout. Pink water flowed over the stones of the floor. His vision grayed.

His shirt was missing, when he was aware enough to focus on his surroundings again.

“With me now, Geralt?” Jaskier hummed, dabbing quietly at his back. He groaned in response.

“I thought as much. It looks like your witchery healing powers have taken care of the worst of this, but it will be another scar for your collection.” He sounded regretful.

“Hopefully not th’ last,” Geralt said.

“That’s rather morbid, in a heroic sort of way I suppose. I don’t think I could stomach a ballad about this one, though.” Geralt remained silent, tumbling the statement over in his head and trying to decipher what it meant. Jaskier had cleaned most of the blood off, and now he appraised the injury fully.

“The good news is, I’ve seen you recover from worse. That cockatrice back in Murivel did a bigger number on you. Of course, you had your potions then…” The bard tapped his lips thoughtfully. Geralt finally opened his eyes when he remained silent for several moments, and easily recognized the expression on his face.

“No use. Out’f Swallow.” Jaskier sighed in defeat.

“That sword damaged more than just skin, Geralt. Any further into the muscle and I fear I’d be seeing bone.This needs stitches.” The witcher merely grunted.

“Legs.” Jaskier’s eyes traveled lower and took in the slashed fabric of his trousers.

“You’re in the market for new pants, but it looks like these have mostly healed.”

“Good.” Jaskier took a sharp breath, and Geralt jumped..

 _“Melitele’s tits,_ Aldwin! Can’t you stand still?!” The bard turned around angrily, and the shuffling that Geralt had been hearing but not registering suddenly halted. 

“Aldw’n?”

“Yes, my dear witcher. The man escorted me here to care for you.”

“Hm.”

“My thoughts exactly.” There was rustling outside of Geralt’s line of sight, and he allowed his eyes to slip closed again. It took a frankly ridiculous amount of effort to keep them open.

“I’m going to stitch this up and put your shirt back on, and then I suspect Aldwin will insist that I return to our room. You’ll have to do your best not to rip them when you’re well enough to do your witchering, since I doubt that even with _your_ skillset you can stitch your own back.” The first stitch went in almost painlessly. Geralt found himself vaguely concerned that he’d gotten so good at first aid, a testament to the amount of experience he had picked up traveling by his side. 

The first time the bard had been forced to patch him up, his hands had been shaking worse than Geralt’s own. He’d had to excuse himself to vomit more than once. When Geralt had rolled his eyes at the display, he’d quickly put up his defense. _Don’t be an ass, Geralt. Mending clothes is quite a bit easier on the stomach--and much_ less _bloody--than stitching up foolish witchers who can’t be bothered to get out of the way of werewolf claws._ He’d sounded annoyed, but had been hard to ignore the undertone of worry. 

Now, his hands were steady, and he’d grown far too adept at detaching himself from the fact that he was putting his _best friend_ back together. Jaskier kept up a steady stream of words to distract from the needle.

“That Lord Campbell is a right bastard. He’s not even worthy of my more creative insults; I’ve the distinct feeling that they would go right over his head. Likes to act all high and mighty-- _well,_ if he only knew. He can’t _touch_ me, and by extension he has no right to touch _you._ But unfortunately, blood has already been spilled. I don’t think it very likely that he would believe me even if I told him of my connections. Besides, what would we do about my reputation as a bard? If word got out--” he shuddered theatrically, managing to thread the needle in the same movement, “ _poof!_ Just like that. Jaskier the bard would disappear. In his place, _Julian Alfred Pankratz,_ Viscount de Lettenhove! I could never travel in peace again.”

He suddenly seemed to remember that they were not alone, and turned to fix Aldwin with a sharp glare.

“If one _single_ word of that leaves these walls, I will know who to come for first.” Alwin nodded without concern. He had no desire to have _two_ noblemen on his back. One was more than enough.

Geralt was only half-listening. One of the cons of witcher healing was the utter exhaustion that came with it--he was certain he would be functioning well enough in a day or so, but it took a lot of energy to mend oneself that quickly.

Jaskier braced him and helped him to sit up, simultaneously wrapping a roll of bandages over his handiwork. The world spun and he was reminded of the numerous hits to the head he’d taken. Geralt remained stoically silent throughout the ordeal, even though he wanted nothing more than to hiss and retreat into a corner like a wounded animal. Then his still-bloodied shirt was pulled over Jaskier's hard work, and the bard tried to make him as comfortable as possible before replacing the shackles where they had been with a contrite expression. 

Guilt didn’t suit him, the witcher decided.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more, Geralt, but I have the distinct feeling that Campbell is _not_ to know that I was here at all.” He’d addressed the statement to Geralt, but he had the sense that it was aimed at Aldwin, who had begun nervously shuffling again.

“That would be ideal, yes.” Jaskier sighed heavily, but didn’t protest. He was lucky that he’d been able to do anything at all, so he couldn’t very well argue with the small man.

“Right. Well.” He looked at a loss, tapping his fingers on his knee.

“Hm.”

Jaskier leaned in close, miming checking on Geralt’s bandages one last time and whispering so low that only the witcher could possibly make out what he was saying. 

_“I’m working on an escape plan. Just hold tight, and I’ll think of something, ok? Don’t go killing anyone if you don’t have to. Pretend you need more time to heal.”_

“M’ _fine,_ Jaskier.” He grunted. Jaskier understood it as the acknowledgement it was meant to be, and stood up. There was still blood soaked into his pants, and he would need to wash them thoroughly to dispose of the evidence.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Geralt.” He called as they ascended the stairs.

The witcher watched forlornly until they were out of sight. When he could no longer hear them, he released a deep breath and allowed his eyes to fall shut. 


	4. King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has too much time to think, and interrogates Aldwin for his motives behind taking him to help Geralt.  
> Geralt has too much time to think, so he sleeps instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short! I'm planning on having the next one posted VERY soon. We get a peek into Jaskier’s mysterious past and find out that Geralt actually does listen to his bard, even though he tries to pretend he doesn’t.  
> The titles from the last three chapters were inspired by the song Soldier, Poet, King by the Oh Hellos.

Jaskier had changed his mind. Campbell wasn’t the type of man to call himself a poet. He was the type of man who would call himself a king.

Not King of Redania--no, that would quickly put his head on the chopping block, and the man was far too cunning to make such a foolish mistake. Maybe not even King of Whatever Fucking Town They Were In (he’d never gotten around to asking, too caught up with having their lives threatened and whatnot to worry about such trivial details). King of the Village implied that he had influence over the townspeople, and Jaskier knew as well as the next man that townspeople were liable to do their own thing, regardless of the demands of nobility. 

He’d gotten the impression that the lord would label himself king of something far more abstract than a tract of land or an entire country, something along the lines of King of Slightly Clever Tricks, King of Being a Giant Prick, King of Somehow Making a Knock the Most Pretentious Sound on the Continent. 

King of Dying a Slow, Painful Death, the bard thought darkly.

He was back in their room, though at this point it had turned more to  _ his  _ room than  _ their  _ room. He didn’t like that, so he kept calling it theirs. He’d done what he could for the witcher, but he couldn’t stop the guilt from clenching painfully around his heart as he’d replaced the shackles around Geralt’s limbs. The man could hardly move and he couldn’t see the logic behind chaining him up, but Jaskier had dealt with men like Campbell before. 

It wasn’t about the practicality of a matter, it was about the clout. How much imagined superiority could they build? How quickly, how efficiently, how  _ ruthlessly  _ could they tear down the barriers that their chosen target had carefully erected? How could they ruin a man to the point of no return?

Nobles were masters at getting into the minds of their enemies (or reluctant allies). Jaskier had learned from the best; he would know. He’d done his own share of psychological warfare over the years--it was how he was so good at weaseling his way out of precarious situations involving disgruntled lovers or his lovers’ disgruntled lovers, so good at turning on the charm to avert the attention from his giant, witchery companion to himself, so good at changing the opinions of the masses. So he was no stranger to the deceptive ways of nobility, particularly entitled lords.

He’d never been close with his family in Lettenhove. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t harbor the standard familial affection for them in the same way one might love a distant cousin or an aunt that only shows up on the holidays. He certainly didn’t agree with many of the decisions that they had made--particularly the sometimes violent repercussions for citizens of Lettenhove who couldn’t pay the tax--but he maintained a civil relationship. The only person he harbored any real affection for was his sister immediately eldest to him, Alba. Unfortunately, she was stuck in her own carefully woven web of politics and cautious words, and it was only in the quiet hours of the evenings when they could let their guards down. 

It was why he’d left. There had been nothing for him at Lettenhove, or at least nothing that he’d wanted. The life of a noble became tiresome, and he was truly a man of the people. He’d told his family as much, and while they hadn’t understood, they had wished him well. His father had slept in many beds before settling down with his current wife (Jasker knew where he got his tendencies from, at least), and it had led to no shortage of heirs. Coming from a family with numerous siblings had its advantages. He wrote letters to Alba from time to time, detailing his numerous adventures with Geralt and the troubles he had gotten into with his many lovers. His next letter would be chock full of colorful descriptions (none of which would shine a kind light on Campbell), when he finally escaped this rat hole.

Jaskier rolled over, kicking the covers on his bed in absentminded frustration. It had been nearly two full days since he’d gone to patch Geralt up, during which time he’d received minimal updates. He’d interrogated Aldwin once, after the trip to patch up Geralt.

“Why did you do it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He continued to collect Jaskier’s half-eaten platter.

“Why did you take me to help Geralt?” The man nearly dropped the dishes. Jaskier chose not to comment.

“ _ Master bard.  _ Please be more cautious with your words.”

“It’s Jaskier.”

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Jaskier. I don’t see the point in formalities when you’ve got me locked up here like a damsel in a tower--you might as well use my name.”

“As you wish, Master Jaskier.” The bard had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. It was a hopeless case.

“You haven’t answered my question.” Aldwin set the platter down and sighed heavily. 

“Very well.” He scurried to the door and pushed it shut, turning the lock in place.

“Lord Campbell is...shall I say...distasteful. And quite foolish.” Jaskier had nodded enthusiastically, surprised he had gotten this far.

“I’ll not see another die in his clutches.” The bard had gone still at the statement.

_ “Another?”  _ His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. It felt strange to have this conversation at a normal volume.

“Your witcher wouldn’t be the first man to die in his grasp. He has developed a habit of killing people who defy him over the years.” Jaskier pressed his lips into a thin line. He didn’t like where this was going.

“Other  _ witchers?”  _

“Good heavens, no. Geralt is the first of his kind to fall victim to Campbell’s whims.”

“Aldwin, if you don’t want to see another death, the solution is really quite simple. Help me escape. Help Geralt escape.” Aldwin didn’t respond, instead picking at his nails restlessly.

“What’s the matter? What is tying you to this place?”

“I have nowhere else, Master Jaskier. This is the only home I have ever known.”

“What, is that it? Start anew with a blank slate. Move to a new village, one with a less detestable lord.”

“I am not in my prime like you, young man. Travel would not be kind to these old bones.”

“Any less kind than the hand of Campbell?” Aldwin didn’t reply, gathering up the dishes and making his way to the door. 

“Think about it, Aldwin.” Jaskier called as the door clicked shut.

He was inclined to keep his mouth shut after that conversation. Jaskier had tried a few more times to persuade him, but every time he got the same response. The man was afraid of any kind of uncertainty, even if it meant living a life in misery. He couldn’t get a peep out of the guards, and he couldn't say he was disappointed that Campbell hadn’t made another appearance. 

The moon was high in the sky, and if they had been on the Path, it was likely that Geralt would be hunting werewolves. The moon was full and even brighter than usual, with a soft pink glow. He would be waxing poetic at this point, taking notes as the witcher dispatched the werewolf with minimal effort, and then they would go back to the tavern, take their pay, have a few drinks, and wash up for the night. If there were two beds, they would sleep separately, but it was often the case that they bought single rooms to keep costs down. They would sleep back-to-back, the sound of each other’s breathing a comfort in the night. And then the next morning, they’d start all over again. 

It had only been five days since they’d become ensnared in the lord’s elaborate trap, but to Jaskier, it felt like a lifetime. 

____

To be frank, the shackles were insulting, and a bit overkill. As if the steel bars of the cell weren’t enough. The chains were too short, and didn’t allow for much movement at all, but anyone who’d dealt with a witcher before had to know that as soon as that door opened, there would be little to prevent the quick and painful death of whoever had the misfortune of turning the key. 

Vesemir and Jaskier seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his aching head, constantly providing alternately semi-helpful advice or sarcastic commentary. Sometimes, he would hum the bard’s songs just to drown out the sounds of their voices. It was not something he intended to admit to Jaskier,  _ ever.  _

The bandages had grown itchy, and probably needed changed or removed altogether. But with nowhere to hide them, he was loath to reveal the treachery of Aldwin to his captor, so they stayed on. He was confident that the slice across his back was at least halfway healed, though it would be much farther along if he’d simply had access to his supplies or even some half-decent food. He’d been provided with stale bread and cheese for the past two days, and it was hardly sufficient to sustain his healing body. 

Nobody had appeared except the same blank-faced guard to deliver his food for his entire occupancy of the cell. Geralt had tried questioning the man, but he was always fixed with an unseeing stare that told him his efforts would prove useless. 

In between fitful periods of sleep, he’d had plenty of time to think. He knew thinking could be dangerous (and wouldn’t Jaskier just  _ roll  _ at that one, and Geralt smiled just thinking about the bard’s contagious laughter), but he’d had little else to do to pass the miserable hours. Mice weren’t as good at conversation as Roach, and nowhere near as musical as his usual companion. 

It hadn’t taken him long to come up with a decent guess as to who had sent the assassin. Several towns back, there had been plenty of complaints from the villagers about the neighboring lord, some jackass known for his extravagant parties and petty attempts to invade neighboring lands to expand his estate. He was certain now that Campbell was the very lord they complained of.

He’d silently thanked Jaskier when he’d made the connection. It seemed the bard’s strange penchant for gossip had its uses. Geralt had a tendency to tune out the hearsay from the locals when he took on contracts; it wasn’t his business to worry about the affairs of humans. Luckily, Jaskier sucked it all up like water to a desert, and almost always relayed the information to his witcher. And though he pretended that he didn’t listen to the young man’s ramblings, it was hard to ignore the sweet tenor. 

So thanks to Jaskier, he had a lead. He still wasn’t feeling too inclined to stop the assassin, though. After all, how was Campbell planning on enforcing  _ that  _ particular mandate? If he chose to stand aside and let the lord get killed, it wasn’t as if Campbell could kill Jaskier from beyond the grave. 

Well. Not if he disposed of the body properly. And maybe burned the castle down, just to be safe. He doubted the villagers would miss it much. It didn’t exactly sit right with him, but he would only tolerate so much mistreatment (especially of  _ his bard)  _ before he was forced to deviate a little from his usual code of morals. He could make an exception for a case such as Campbell’s. And then swear off contracts from any noble  _ ever  _ again. 

A mouse scampered over his ankle. Water dripped. He sighed and leaned back.

____

He’d calculated the distance to the ground from the second story window three times, and every time, the idea became just a little more tempting. 

He knew he wouldn’t land the jump without  _ at least _ one broken leg. It was very likely to be more than one, if he was entirely honest with himself. But the glass was practically  _ begging  _ to be removed from the windowsill--he could almost fit his fingers under the ledge! He had the sense that this room was  _ quite  _ drafty in the winter, even with the fireplace roaring. The glass wouldn’t even need to be broken for him to remove it. Not that he cared about sparing Campbell the cost of a new window. 

He’d thought about trying to overpower the guards outside his door, or to make a move when Aldwin was in the room, but that left him with the task of simultaneously navigating to the exit of the castle and fending off pursuers at the same time. And then there was still the matter of retrieving Geralt.

The fire had tempted him a number of times, too. Light the end of a bedpost, use it as a weapon? It was almost certainly a better deterrent than a dagger-he could threaten to set the whole castle on fire. But then he looked at his room, and remembered the walls of the corridors, and no, stone wasn’t likely to take to flame in the same way a wooden inn might. 

He considered faking his death--Campbell had planted the idea when he’d misunderstood his threats--but he didn’t see how that would really get him very far. It wouldn’t take them long to realize that he was actually quite alive, and then they might just choose to  _ really  _ end his life and be done with the whole ordeal. And Geralt likely wouldn’t appreciate the talent it would take to pull such a scheme off, anyways; Jaskier was, first and foremost, a performer. It would do no good to put on such an act if it would only make his witcher angry. He could hear his scolding now--

_ Dammit, Jaskier! How was faking your death supposed to help us? The only thing you succeeded in doing is pissing off Campbell. Now we’re both in deep shit. Fuck.  _

Perhaps that wasn’t quite right--more  _ fuck _ s and fewer words, but it was the gist of what Geralt would say. And he would be angry, but he knew the man well enough that he’d be able to detect a hint of relief at finding him alive. 

He shook his head, dispelling the strange daydream. 

It was a rotten situation all around. He could not devise a manner of escape that didn’t leave one of them vulnerable. He blamed his lack of creative solutions on the repetitive meals he’d been served; it was always the same. He wasn’t sure if it was some up-and-coming form of torture or if his years on the road had developed in him an uncommon taste for variety. He’d never once in his life  _ yearned  _ for vegetables, but hey, there’s a first time for everything, right?

And speaking of food, there was a quiet knock at the door that signaled the arrival of more cheese and crackers. 

Aldwin placed the familiar platter down on the table. Jaskier didn’t move, but sighed theatrically from his spot on the bed. 

“Listen. Aldwin. My good man. Always so attentive and helpful. Really, I couldn’t ask for a better caretaker for this whole ordeal.” Aldwin crossed his arms and gave him a pointed look.

“I don’t mean to be picky, but this is the…” he paused, ticking off his fingers as he counted, “...eleventh? Twelfth? Meal of cheese and crackers? Anyways, it doesn’t matter. My point is--I have not eaten something besides this since the night of my arrival. Where’s the variety? You know, they say variety is the spice of life. I can assure you that there is very little spice in my life, currently. What I’m trying to say is I’m not sure if I can stomach hors d'oeuvres anymore.” Aldwin paused, but waved the servant standing in the doorway off.

“I believe you will find this particular meal  _ very  _ appetizing.” Then he swept out of the room without another word, leaving Jaskier very confused and maybe a little bit angry. Huffing with irritation, he lifted the cover off of the plate…

...and was greeted with not only a real, honest-to-gods  _ sandwich,  _ but a key. A very worn, slightly rusted one, but a key all the same. 

A sandwich never tasted so good. 


	5. Flight of the Lark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier agonizes over what to do about Geralt, but he doesn’t have to think about it for too long before Aldwin’s treachery is discovered. He's forced to flee, but first he has to remember his way around the damn castle.

The key was the break that he’d been waiting for. All of his half-baked plans went out the window as soon as he laid eyes on it-- _this_ was the opportunity he needed. The question was, what about Geralt? He wasn’t even sure if it worked on _his_ lock, and he was quite certain that it would not work on the witcher’s cell. He remembered clearly what that key had looked like, and the one in his hand did not match in the slightest.

That left him with a choice. 

Was he to try to rescue Geralt so the both of them escape, and risk getting caught? If he failed, Aldwin’s help would have been for nothing and he didn’t anticipate getting a second lucky break. Or was he to leave without Geralt, risk the consequences for the witcher, and return with a plan and maybe even backup? And what if he _did_ choose to flee without Geralt? Should he wait until the witcher had left to investigate, or escape now?

There were too many decisions to make, and Jaskier’s head was spinning with panic. He wasn’t used to being the one in charge--not when there was another life on the line. If he’d been alone, it would be an easy choice, and the bedroom would’ve long since been vacated. But keeping in mind the safety of another was something he was almost completely unfamiliar with. He found himself suddenly sympathetic with Geralt’s grumpiness--no wonder the witcher's hair was white. It was all of the damn stress, and Jaskier’s continued companionship probably didn’t make things easier. He’d gotten himself into plenty of tight corners over the past two years, corners that Geralt had always had to pull him out of. He promised himself that when they made it out of this, he would do a better job of staying out of trouble. It would be the least he could do, if it meant a little less worrying for his travel companion. 

He turned the iron key over in his hands. It felt exceedingly heavy in his palm, like it could sense how much weight his decision carried. He _hated_ when metaphors worked out so literally. He preferred them in his songs, where the most harm they could do was get stuck in his head. 

Footsteps echoed outside the door, and Jaskier dropped the key into his boot. He needn’t have worried, though. It was only Aldwin. He pulled the door shut behind him as he entered.

“Did you enjoy your meal, Master Jaskier?”

 _“Quite,_ Aldwin. I extend my gratitude.” He paused, worrying his bottom lip as he debated pressing his luck. Aldwin raised an eyebrow at him.

“What is Geralt’s condition?” Aldwin sighed and set the platter back on the table, pulling out a chair to sit.

“I haven’t seen Master Geralt since that night. Word from the guards is that he is completely recovered.” Jaskier let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“I cannot bring him with me.” He’d meant for it to come out as a question, but as he spoke it, he knew the answer.

“No, Master Jaskier. I’m afraid it is impossible.” 

“What do you propose I should do, then…?” He couldn’t very well _leave_ Geralt. If their places were switched, he had no doubt that they would have been days down the Path already, this place forgotten.

“Campbell plans to allow him to investigate in the morning.”

“Very well, then. Thank you, Aldwin.” The man turned to leave, and Jaskier put his hand on his shoulder.

“Come with us. Leave this place.” His voice was low, but he tried to push the urgency that he felt into it. Aldwin fixed him with a sad look and didn’t respond. 

When he opened the door, two guards were there to meet him, and they didn’t look pleased. _Fuck,_ Jaskier thought. As it turned out, he wouldn’t have to agonize over his decision for much longer, because it had effectively just been made for him. 

____

It didn’t take a genius to realize that they’d been caught. Nothing about the guards’ behavior gave it away, but Jaskier was no fool. When Aldwin had entered, he’d done so alone. When he’d left, it had been between two armed men. Jaskier had to wonder how much of their conversation had been overheard. He knew there wasn’t much time to waste, however, and he hastily threw together his and Geralt’s belongings as soon as the footsteps had faded to silence. He and Geralt hadn’t brought much to begin with, so it didn’t take long to pack. 

Night was falling quickly, and storm clouds gathered on the horizon meant that darkness would cover his escape. He shuddered, thinking about the rain and cold, but there was little to be done. He pulled his doublet on and stowed his dagger in his boot.

Jaskier had no idea why they hadn’t searched him immediately for the key or weapons, but he wasn’t about to dally on the strange luck. He could only pray that he could make it to Roach in time to flee. He wouldn’t make it very far without a horse.

The lock groaned in agony as he turned the key in the door and he tensed, wincing, but heard no commotion from outside. His hands were trembling fiercely. 

_Don’t be a fool, Jaskier. This is no different than the countless other times you’ve snuck out of royal bedrooms._

_Except that it is._

The door squealed loudly and Jaskier cursed his fickle luck. It had never made such ruckus before, in the countless times people had come and gone from this room, so of _course_ it would now. 

The corridor was empty, save the single torch mounted to the wall outside the room. It smelled of sweat and mildew, and Jaskier wrinkled his nose in distaste. He pulled the door shut carefully behind him. It was deceptively quiet, but if he listened very closely, he could hear the sounds of voices echoing against the stone walls. 

Voices that were getting closer. 

_Fuck._

Now that he was paying attention, he could hear the sounds of armor clanking, and he knew that his time was up. He sprinted away from the door, trying to escape the torchlight. The corner was close, but not close enough, and the voices were getting closer--

“Hey!” 

“That’s the bard!”

_“Fuckfuckshitfuckmother--”_

_“Stop!”_ And now the clanking of armor was accompanied by the telltale sounds of swords being drawn from their sheathes and Jaskier was _not_ ready to die. His heart had reached speeds he wasn’t sure were possible in record time and he barely registered his feet touching the ground as he flew down the hallways. Heavy steps followed him and though they weren’t getting closer, they had the advantage. Jaskier was unfamiliar with the castle and hadn’t paid _near_ enough attention to the maze of halls when he’d been escorted through the compound and now he was paying for it. 

He rounded the corner and was met with a hall identical to the one he’d just left. Windowed alcoves lined the left side of it, the dying sunlight filtering weakly through the dusty glass. Thunder rolled across the plains outside and the wind whistled through the cracks.

Jaskier took this all in in the blink of an eye, and a moment later he was wedging himself as far into one of the alcoves as he could fit, trying to force his panicky breaths into something quieter. He snatched his dagger out of his boot and held it to his chest.

His pack was wedged tightly between his back and the wall and he cursed himself for carrying so many things, but they were valuable resources that he couldn’t very well leave behind. He’d paid good money for his oils and soaps, and he absolutely refused to leave his spare clothes behind. 

The clatter of soldiers drawing near made the breath freeze in his throat. They roared past, weapons drawn and reflecting menacingly in the red light of the sunset. Jaskier watched, eyes wide, as they disappeared, somehow miraculously not seeing him in his ridiculously bright blue doublet and pants.

He stood there for a moment, trying to gather his wits about him. His hair clung to his forehead with sweat and his heart was still doing its damndest to bust through his ribcage. His brush with the guards had been enough to send him into hyperdrive. He felt like his senses had somehow expanded; he was aware of every sound and movement. His dagger shook in his hand.

Angry shouts bounced off the walls, and he threw himself back against the cold stones. More guards ran through the hall at the end of the one he was in, but didn’t enter. He breathed a sigh of relief. 

He needed to find Roach. Guilt threatened to consume him at the thought of leaving Geralt, but he was sure that the witcher would be heavily guarded by now and it would do them no good if he got caught again. A plan. A plan would be an immense help, and he cursed the gods for forcing his hand before he’d been able to come up with one.

Step one. Find Roach. Step two. Escape, maybe find backup. Step three: return triumphantly and free Geralt, then ride off into the sunset. Yeah. Simplicity worked best. He took a steadying breath and nodded to himself. 

He waited until the sounds of the search faded, and crept out of his hiding spot. His terrible directional memory was proving to be more of a curse every day--all of these hallways looked the same. Silently, he crept along dozens of corridors, peeking around corners and ducking into alcoves when guards walked by. All of his years running from jilted lovers had trained him for this moment. After what felt like hours, but realistically had only been about ten minutes, he found a stairwell.

 _“Ha!_ Now, _that,_ I remember.” 

_Jaskier, shut up,_ his inner Geralt scolded. He waved the imaginary witcher off and tried to recall their journey through the castle on the first night. They’d ascended a staircase after releasing Roach to the stablehand. 

The stairs were damp and moss was growing in abundant quantities along the walls. Jaskier jumped when he heard a crack of thunder and nearly tumbled down the rest of the flight, but caught himself at the last minute. He trailed his fingers along the stone for balance.

“Ever heard of a railing, Campbell?” He murmured acidly. 

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could hear voices. He sucked in a breath and ducked into the shadows. 

“--furious. I don’t want to spend all night looking for a damn _bard._ I say let the great prick die.”

“Shut _up!_ These walls have ears.”

“Whatever. I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” The voices were just past the opening at the end of the stairwell, and they sounded like they were moving away. Just as he thought they would move along without any trouble, he heard the door above him swing open. 

Jaskier felt his heart leap into his throat. Someone was murmuring to himself, and he sounded troubled. Then the soft thudding of fast footsteps down the stairs reached his ears.

Jaskier looked about wildly, trying to find something to hide behind, but there was nothing. He was standing right at the bottom of the stairs--he’d be impossible to miss. Maybe if those two men weren’t just outside the archway, he could run and find somewhere to hide, or fight the man off and get away without drawing too much attention, but with backup standing not ten feet away, he couldn’t--

“Who’s there?” The voice trembled. Jaskier gulped and brandished his knife, not moving from his spot on the wall. The guard came around the corner and froze, looking just as scared as Jaskier felt. The man standing in front of him was no taller than Geralt, and a great deal skinnier. He looked as though his armor barely fit him, and judging by the acne and small stature, just a boy.

 _Melitele’s merciful tits, don’t make me fight a_ child _tonight._

He was staring right at him, jaw agape, spear dangling at his side. Jaskier shook his head vigorously, making a pleading gesture.

“Don’t engage. You didn’t see me. Please, I don’t want to fight you.” Jaskier was just aware enough of the whimper in his voice to be embarrassed by it, and he felt his ears heat at the show of weakness. 

“Jerald! That you?” One of the men called from beyond the opening. The guard visibly shook himself and looked over his shoulder in the direction of the voice.

“It’s me!” Jerald spared him one final glance, and then he turned around and disappeared through the archway. There was a sound as if he'd been clapped on the shoulder, and the voices faded as the men walked the opposite direction. 

_“Gods above,_ I know I’m only twenty, but I don’t know if my heart can take much more of this,” He whispered to himself, flattening his palm against his chest and sinking to the floor, his head spinning. Jaskier couldn’t believe his luck. The boy could’ve easily reported his location. Still very well might’ve, but judging by the lack of weapons at his throat, it was safe to say that he hadn’t.

Jaskier waited a good few minutes before daring to exit the stairwell, praying the whole time that another guard wouldn’t come down the stairs. When he felt like enough time had passed, he exited the stairs, sticking to the shadows still, and was greeted with a courtyard.

“Oh, thank fuck.” Across the way was none other than the stables, where he hoped Roach was still boarded. If not, well...he’d worry about that when he got to it. 

There was only one problem. The guards that he’d heard speaking earlier were now stationed outside the stable doors, and more stood in pairs around the courtyard entries. All in all, there were about a dozen of them, and he was certain he couldn’t take them all. And he couldn’t rely on the strange streak of luck he’d been experiencing to carry him any further. 

He _could_ just make a run for it. But that would very effectively draw the attention of the dozen or so men standing around the courtyard, and he was positive that he would not be able to tack up Roach in that time. 

For a brief moment he allowed himself to entertain the absurd image of himself knocking out a guard and stealing his clothes, but there were a number of logistical problems with that plan. The first was that it assumed that he would have the strength to knock the man unconscious without alerting the other guards. While stealth was a specialty he’d picked up over his years of sneaking off with forbidden lovers, he doubted he could take down a fully armed man with tiptoes and lewd promises. Though it did produce a rather entertaining mental image. The second issue was that he absolutely refused to leave his clothes behind to disguise himself as a guard. He’d paid far too much for this outfit to leave it in the mud at Campbell’s castle. 

He had a dagger. What if he just…? 

_No,_ he thought, suppressing a shudder. He couldn’t justify killing, even though he felt like some of these men probably deserved it. He couldn’t bring himself to murder another person in cold blood, even if it _was_ for a good cause. 

Diversion. That was what he needed. He was terrific with diversions.

Jaskier found it really quite amazing how difficult it was to find a pebble when he needed one. A smallish rock would have done the trick. He’d even settle for a stick. But the cobblestones that made up the courtyard perimeter were tragically free of any such debris. Pursing his lips at the waste he was about to make out of one of his perfectly good oils, he mentally made a note to yell about it later, preferably once he was in the company of Geralt. The witcher would understand that the ire wasn’t aimed at him, and would hum in agreement at the loss. 

He quietly dropped to his knees behind the pillar he’d been using as cover and opened up his bag. He chose his least expensive oil and unwrapped it from the fabric cloth he kept his bottles in. It was only almond oil, a base that he’d yet to scent with flowers or herbs. It glinted in the orange light of the torch on the wall behind him.

He turned around to look at the source of light. An idea sparked when he spotted it, and he allowed a sinister grin to cross his face. Killing? Maybe not. But pyromania? That was _right_ up his alley. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d used a quick-and-dirty molotov cocktail. Jaskier was nothing if not mischievous. 

Several seconds later, he was regretting his decision as he threw the bottle as far as he could manage as quickly as he could manage. He’d forgotten that fire is, in fact, hot. His hand still smarting but luckily not actually damaged by the heat from the flame, he watched in satisfaction as all eyes in the courtyard were drawn to the small explosion in the corner. Glass shards flew in all directions, and he ducked behind his pillar to avoid getting hit. Then he surveyed the damage.

There wasn’t actually that much damage to speak of, per se, but the oil had splattered everywhere on impact and bright fire danced across the stones where it had landed. The effect was rather impressive, for how small the vial had been.

“It’s that damn bard!”

_“Find him!”_

The guards all ran in the direction that he’d thrown the vial, which left his path to the stables completely clear. The thunderclouds now rolled overhead, heavy with rain and the promise of a strong storm. The wind had picked up enough that his doublet flapped traitorously in an attempt to draw attention. He would _seriously_ need to consider some more muted clothing once this was all over. He darted across the courtyard while the guards were distracted, thanking the storm for darkening the moon. While it was no longer full, it was still more than bright enough to make his presence known. 

He entered the stable and was met with the familiar smell of horses and leather. He had to take a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but once he could see he spotted the stable hand. She was frozen in place, brush tangled in the mane of the gray mare she way brushing. Straw colored hair fell into her wide eyes.

“Shh. I’m not here to hurt you. Just show me where my horse is.” He held out his hands in a placating gesture, desperately hoping she wasn’t about to scream. The girl must’ve had a steady head on her shoulders though, because once she got over her initial shock, she led him to Roach with no qualms.

“Best care in Redania, just like your witcher asked.” She patted Roach affectionately, and Jaskier was shocked that the usually cantankerous mare didn’t nip at her.

“Seems she’s got a soft spot for you, eh?” The stable hand blushed and returned to the dapple gray. Jaskier busied himself tacking Roach up, but his eyes kept wandering to the other horse.

“That’s a beautiful mare. Does she have a name?” His whisper felt too loud, even though he knew his voice wouldn’t carry outside of the stable walls. The wind and commotion of the search were more than enough to drown out his tenor.

The stable girl shook her head silently, not making eye contact.

“Whose horse is she?” Jaskier settled Roach’s saddle onto her back, tightening the straps around her girth and moving on to the saddlebags.

“The lord’s, sir.”

Hm.

“Does he take good care of her?”

 _“I_ take good care of her.” She hadn’t answered the question directly, but Jaskier understood what her evasion meant. The mare was sturdy, well-built and suited to travel.

“Perhaps I could...take her off of his hands?” The girl flashed him a look, stopping her ministrations. Jaskier realized he’d gone too far and quickly backtracked as she began to walk towards the door.

“Or not? It was foolish of me to ask, I apologize--” She was already reaching for the door. Jaskier mentally kicked himself and stumbled over his own feet in his rush to stop her. And then her hand went past the handle to where an extra saddle and blanket was placed on the stall door. Returning to the mare, she began to go about tacking her up. 

“Oh.” The girl merely looked at him again, a small smile crossing her face. Several stalls down, a horse whinnied impatiently. Jaskier jumped at the noise.

“That one’s mine.” She whispered conspiratorially. 

“Really?”

“Well, not _exactly._ See, he’s the one I’m gonna take when I run away from this place.” Jaskier looked down the row. A black stallion tossed his head at him. 

“He’s got spirit.” The bard was nearly done with his preparations. He gave Roach an affectionate pat, and she nosed his hand, looking for sugar cubes.

“Sorry, girl. None today, but when we get out of here I’ll make sure to get you the biggest, juiciest apple money can buy.” She fixed him with a stare that seemed to hold a threat.

 _You’d better remember that, bard._ He swallowed nervously. He could almost _hear_ her promise of bodily harm if he forgot.

He settled Roach’s bridle behind her ears and scratched between them where she liked it best. He almost climbed into her saddle, but quickly reversed his actions when he remembered the way Geralt always glared at him when he asked for a ride. Even though the witcher wasn’t here, he had a feeling that the man would _know_ if he’d ridden his horse. Across the aisle, the girl had finished preparing the mare for travel. Jaskier led Roach from her own stall and took the other mare’s reins from the girl’s hand. 

“Thank you, miss.” She gave him a terse nod. Jaskier made his way to the door and was about to exit when she held up her hand to stop him. 

“Let me check.” Then she scampered outside. A minute or so later, she reentered, looking satisfied.

“It’s clear if you go now. Safe travels, Master bard.” Jaskier beamed at her, trying to ignore the way his heart clenched at the thought of Geralt still chained up in the dungeon. He would be back. Geralt would be fine. He had to believe that.

Jaskier led the two horses through the double doors of the stable, and the girl walked out behind him. He mounted the dapple gray easily and settled into the saddle, wrapping Roach’s lead around the pommel.

“Good luck.” 

“The same to you.” He tapped the mare’s sides with his heels, urging her into a canter, and sent a lazy salute to the stable girl. Soon, she was out of sight, and he felt very exposed in the open on top of his horse.

“Well, Roachie, it’s just you, me, and the new girl for now. You have to help me get out of here. I’m not much of a fighter, but _you--_ you can make grown men piss their pants. Don’t give me that look, you know it’s true.” Roach whuffed, but Jaskier could tell it was in agreement.

His luck finally ran out when they approached the doors. He had known that they would be guarded, but they seemed to have deduced that his escape would eventually lead to this destination. There were at least twenty of them, armed with spears and swords, lined up in front of the wooden doors. The dagger in Jaskier’s hand suddenly felt very small. Still, he had appearances to keep up. So even as sweat trickled down his neck and the first fat raindrops fell from the clouds above, he kept up his uncaring facade.

“Now now, gentlemen, do you _really_ believe that some pointy sticks and glorified kitchen knives are going to stop me when I’ve already gotten this far?” He was surprised the men couldn’t hear his heart valiantly trying to escape his chest.

“Get off the horse and surrender peacefully, and we might let you live, bard.”

“I’m hardly about to get off of this horse, sir. Do you imagine I’ve gotten this far through pure luck?” 

_Careful,_ Geralt’s voice echoed in his head, _don’t show your hand, bard. You don’t have one._

The man didn’t relent, but Jaskier saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Ever the performer, he pushed harder.

“You _really_ don’t know who I am, do you? What I’m capable of?” The man scoffed in disbelief.

“You’re a traveling bard. That’s all I need to know.”

“Ha! Is that really what he told you?”

“Dismount the horse.” Jaskier’s control of the situation was slipping. His grip on the dagger tightened, and he could feel the intricate carvings in the handle digging into his palm. 

“Move out of my way, and I won’t kill you.” He countered.

The two groups stared at each other. They were at a stalemate; Jaskier knew he was no use to the lord if he was dead. He had the advantage of two horses, one of which was very temperamental. But the men had called his bluff. He was grossly outnumbered with only a dagger for a weapon and in enemy territory. They inched closer, weapons trained on him. 

“Come now, let’s be reasonable here…” His panic was reaching peak levels. He’d never felt stress like this before, not even when he’d nearly been killed by a disgruntled baron when he’d found out that he’d slept with his daughter. 

No, this was different, because it wasn’t just _his_ life at stake. If he didn’t escape, Geralt wouldn’t either. Guilt and fear wrapped in dark tendrils around his ribs, threatening to lay him out before the guards did, and still they came closer. Sweat was pouring off of him now, mixing with the rain, and his horse was becoming agitated.

Then Roach reared onto her hind legs, angry and tired of the tension, and all hell broke loose.

Swords flashed in the dim light of the torches, and the bottom fell out of the sky. There was shouting, and something hot fell on his leg, and the horses were stamping their feet in agitation--angered cries carried on the wind and lightning flashed in time with the thunder.

Distantly, he thought he heard someone call his name-- _it sounded like Geralt._

The men looked like ghosts in their armor, soaked to the bone and pale as death. 

He felt something deep inside of him snap, like a dam breaking. Heat pooled in his stomach. His very core felt like it was humming with pent-up emotion.

“Unhorse him!”

The humming grew louder.

_There’s too many._

The rain fell harder.

The voices of the guards faded to the background.

Jaskier’s head felt like it was splitting at the seams, and he registered that the unearthly yell he was hearing was coming from _him._

An earth-shattering _BANG,_ and then everything went white. 

When the spots in his vision cleared, all of the guards were flat on their backs, unconscious, steam rising from their clothes. His doublet was smoking. Jaskier sat stock-still atop his horse, petrified. He looked down at his hands. Sparks danced across his fingertips. Further down, he could see the crimson of his own blood rapidly staining his blue trousers. He had hardly felt the blow, but it would need to be cared for as soon as he was out of more immediate danger.

 _“_ What...in the name of Melitele’s blessed bosom…” He murmured, voice quavering. His limbs felt numb. His vision was dark, blurring, black at the edges. Confusion and terror threatened to consume him. 

_Now is NOT the time, Jaskier._ Inner-Geralt growled, effectively jerking him back to the present. He shivered in the rain, even though it was warm. 

“Alright, Jaskier. Later. We can handle this _later.”_

What mattered now was that there was nothing in his path, the doors had been blown open by the blast, and he could hear the angry shouting of more men coming. He needed to leave.

He kicked his horse into a gallop. Roach, unconcerned with Jaskier’s outburst, remained practically glued to his side. The rain felt like a thousand needles on his face as he fled into the storm. Astonished villagers watched from behind curtains and cracked doors as he thundered past, horses throwing up mud with their hooves. He blinked away the rain, and wondered why the smell of ozone seemed to be following him. Behind, an agonized roar tore into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's the next chapter several days early! I have been WAITING for this one. Writing this was so damn HARD, because I had this big reveal in mind, and no matter how many times I rewrote it, it just didn’t feel quite right. Alas, I’ve settled for this and I hope that it’s dramatic enough. I don’t usually put notes at the bottom, but I wanted the surprise to remain as such. So what’s up with Jaskier? Patience, dear readers. All will be revealed in time.  
> As always, please leave kudos n comments! I’m always more motivated to write when y’all let me know that you like what I’m writing. Got a favorite part? Tell me! Did I make you laugh? Tell me!!! I love you all and when you comment it always makes my day <3


	6. Chink in the Wolf's Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The castle’s in chaos, Jaskier’s gotten ahold of a key (somehow, he’s managed to collect another horse?) and all Geralt can do is listen. Listen and hope.

Geralt was a man of action. He was  _ built  _ to travel, to move, to wield a sword and ride a horse and fight monsters. He was  _ not  _ made to sit cooped up in a cell for days on end, chained to a wall with nothing but the mice for company. His legs were stiff, his arms were stiff, his back was stiff--hell, even his  _ ass  _ was stiff. That’s what happens when you’re given the choice of exactly two semi-comfortable positions on a cold stone floor for hours upon hours. He could put nearly a foot of distance between his body and the wall. He might’ve even been able to meditate comfortably, except that the chains were just short enough that he was always pulling awkwardly at his joints, or they were wedged underneath his body and digging into his flesh. If it wasn’t the ones at his feet, twisting around his ankles and bruising the bones there, it was the ones around his wrists, pinching and pulling at his scarred skin. 

Frustrated with the lack of physical escape from his dilemma, he’d turned inwards. Meditation was all but impossible, but he could still let his mind wander and drift somewhere between his meditative state and full consciousness. He’d exhausted his repertoire of information about his current dilemma. The guards weren’t spilling any new information--they came in twice a day with bread and cheese, and never exchanged words, even when he asked the simplest questions. He’d tried it all: threats, promises, anger, desperation, even copying the same blank gaze that they always wore. He would receive nothing but a wary stare in response.

It was obvious that Campbell had ordered that no one speak with him. The men always eyed him with trepidation, even though they’d shown no fear during their battle in the dining hall. It was funny, really, because Jaskier was the one who had a way with words. It was Jaskier’s silver tongue that they should’ve been afraid of, Jaskier that Campbell’s men should have been warned against because given enough time with anyone, he could break down their defenses. Geralt would know. 

But him, on the other hand? Dangerous with his words? Hardly. He could threaten anyone within an inch of their lives, and it took little besides a glower to send most humans running with tears in their eyes. But he wasn’t cunning in the way Jaskier could be. He couldn’t weave his way into someone’s trust with a conversation. He certainly couldn’t make an enemy into an ally through sheer stubbornness.

He’d become so bored with the lack of human interaction--something he’d never thought he could yearn for--that he’d begun mentally rereading the entire bestiary of Kaer Morhen, reviewing even the most mundane of beasts. Their weaknesses, strengths, regions of activity--everything. For a while, he’d tumbled around the idea of adding Campbell to the list of monsters. He certainly qualified, Geralt thought. But he had the sense that Vesemir wouldn’t take too kindly to the suggestion. Jaskier’s voice, in his head, had found the notion quite comical. Alas, he was nearing the end of his imaginary library, too. 

Inevitably, he always eventually drifted back to his current predicament. It had taken him only a few hours of solitary confinement before he’d all but solved Campbell’s primary question; he knew who had sent the assassin. He knew who he had to track down in order to finish this accursed contract, and he expected that it wouldn’t take more than a few well-placed threats to wrap things up nicely. And then he and Jaskier could move on and forget this whole rotten ordeal. 

But the problem was, Campbell seemed to be waiting for something. He had no idea what it might be. He wasn’t sure if there was something happening on the bard’s end of the situation that he wasn’t aware of--and maybe that was the case, because he hadn’t seen the other man since he’d been down to take care of his injuries. That had been days ago, though. Or maybe there was the possibility that Campbell had severely overestimated the amount of time it took for a witcher to heal from an injury. Of course, he had to admit that without Jaskier’s careful tending, there was a decent chance that he would still be down for the count. The wound on his back hadn’t been one to take lightly, but with the stitchwork that the bard had done in combination with his sturdy witcher constitution, the wounds were mostly healed. They still itched from time to time, as all newly healed injuries were wont to, but he was in no position to complain. Jaskier had done such a neat job of cleaning him up that he could tell the scarring would even be minimal, unlike many other injuries he’d received. If he’d been left to care for it on his own, it would have been much uglier; gruesome enough that, perhaps, it would match so many of the other scars the bard had interrogated him about. 

He was growing impatient. An idea occurred to him around midafternoon, that maybe he could shorten the length of his stay in the damn cell if he could convince Campbell that he had information worth sharing. He would need to be careful--persuasive enough that he would feel the need to come down personally to hear what he had to say. That wouldn’t be too hard. The difficult part would be getting the guards’ attention in order to relay his message and make it seem urgent enough that the whole matter wouldn’t simply be brushed under the rug.

There was one guard standing outside the dungeon at the top of the stairs. It was always the same one. He wasn’t sure  _ why,  _ exactly, there was only one. If it was meant to be an insult, he was unbothered by it. He knew that there was no chance of escaping without an extreme stroke of good luck; the shackles were equal parts degrading and complimentary. While they meant that they clearly saw him as something that needed to be contained, the chains also signified that they saw him as a very serious threat. Regardless of the reasoning behind the decision to restrain him so thoroughly, the fact still remained that he would not be getting out on his own. 

It was the contrast of such excessive measures combined with the rather lax guard that he found confusing. Most nobles were terrified to the point of lunacy by witchers. Based on his past experiences, he would’ve expected at least a dozen men, not one.

“Hello?” He called. He could hear the heartbeat of the guard outside notch up a bit, so he knew that he’d been heard.

“I know you can hear me.” He growled. The man’s pulse sped up a bit more, and he caught a whispered curse.

“I have information that Campbell may want to hear.” If he’d been able to smell anything besides the stench of dried blood and mildew, he might’ve detected a hint of curiosity on the man’s scent. 

“Tell him that I know who’s after his blood. But I want to speak to him  _ personally.”  _

There was a beat of hesitation before the sound of hurried footsteps reached his ears. He sat back against the wall, satisfied that Campbell would arrive before the day’s end.

____

There was some sort of commotion happening in the castle. Campbell had  _ not  _ come to see him, and it had been hours since he’d told the guard to relay his message to the man. He’d never returned, either, so he wasn’t sure what was happening. The sun sat low in the sky--he could tell because the light from the window above his head always touched the first stair shortly before he was brought his evening sustenance. It was maybe a foot away from the stair now, which meant it was around five or six. 

He shifted his weight to his left side. He was constantly switching back and forth, trying to prevent the entire lower half of his body from going numb; if he did it this way, it was only one leg at a time that got pins and needles. He envied Jaskier’s setup in the room they’d been given, though he knew the man was likely far closer to losing his mind than he was. 

Jaskier didn’t do well without human contact--he’d learned that very quickly into their friendship. The man seemed hardly aware of his own penchant for casual touch. It had set Geralt on edge at first, constantly snapping and flinching every time he drew close, but as time went on, he began to secretly enjoy the warmth that came with those touches. Every time Jaskier was near him, there was some level of contact involved. If they were in a tavern, it would be a brush of his elbow, a touch on the shoulder during his performances. If they were on the trail, it would be a nudge as he sauntered past, singing loudly and without reserve. If they were at an inn, it was the scratch of fingernails against his scalp as the bard washed his hair, or the heat of their backs pressed together when they shared a bed. 

He wondered how Jaskier was faring without his presence. He knew he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss his company. Geralt was aware of the dangers of developing relationships with humans, whether they were platonic or otherwise. Such dangers were why he chose to avoid civilization except to take contracts, why he always remained so gruff and distant with the people he interacted with. Often they were more than happy to oblige his behavior; it was rare for them to react with anything besides disgust or distrust. Jaskier was the only exception. He was stubborn to a fault. Nothing Geralt had done to scare him off had deterred him in the slightest. He seemed to have almost no self-preservation instincts; fear was as foreign to him as brewing potions. And Jaskier was the only human he’d ever met who didn’t see him as a monster. He’d taken a liking to his less-than human mutations, fascinated with his eyes and his fangs. Maybe that was why he’d allowed himself to develop such a soft spot for the man--he’d given him the benefit of the doubt, something he’d never received before. It was a gift that he’d never taken lightly.

Campbell was something of an anomaly as well, though he certainly wasn’t the first man of his kind that Geralt had dealt with. He seemed to harbor no fear for the witcher, even though he’d obviously heard the stories. Caution was different from fear. Even with the knowledge of the whole Butcher debacle, he’d seemed unworried about Geralt’s threat to his safety. Disgust? Definitely. But the terror he was used to? Not so much. It was an unfortunate combination, because Campbell was more than happy to abuse his power in order to get what he wanted.

And now he wouldn’t even grace Geralt with his presence, even though he’d offered up information he was certain the lord would want to hear on a silver platter. He was willing to play along with the silly charade Campbell had set up if it meant moving on to the next town sooner. Maybe he just planned to let him rot down here for the rest of his days, subsisting off stale bread and moldy cheese with no one for company except the mice. Their arrangement  _ had  _ become a bit unclear after the whole maiming and stabbing thing. He had to admit that he wasn’t entirely sure what Campbell wanted or expected anymore, having not seen the man since he’d held the blade still dripping with his blood to Jaskier’s throat.

The sunlight was more than touching the stair now. It was almost entirely covered with the light of the sunset, and his stomach helpfully reminded him that the guard hadn’t even come with his food. Thunder rolled in the distance. He could imagine the storm gathering over the plains, approaching the city.

He was abruptly yanked from his thoughts by the clamor of at least twenty men charging down the corridor at the top of the stairs. He tried to focus on their voices, but only caught a little of what they were saying.

“--Aldwin’s gone rogue--”

_ “Really?  _ The old coot?”

“Gwenfred said he heard them talking--”

“--bard’s got a key--”

His heart nearly slammed to a halt.  _ Bard’s got a key.  _ That could mean exactly one thing. Jaskier was going to escape, and they had the gall to think they could stop him. A wry smile crossed his cracked lips, and pride made his chest swell. He knew Jaskier. The man was smart, and he always had a plan. The odds of catching him, once he was out of that room, were minute. Geralt only hoped that he’d been prepared for the possibility of getting discovered. 

Even if the answer was no, he knew that Jaskier had escaped the angry clutches of a rather impressive number of disgruntled nobles in his time. It was entirely possible that he’d been in a nearly identical situation before. It certainly sounded like he was about to have the whole castle set upon him.

The whole castle.

Despite his confidence in the bard, his brain quickly came up with numerous and increasingly horrifying potential outcomes for the situation as soon as he realized one simple fact: this time, Jaskier wasn’t alone this time. And  _ he  _ was the wild card.

Geralt’s heart clenched with worry. There was a very slim chance that the bard would try to rescue him as well, and he prayed that he would be smart enough not to try. The dungeon was an easy spot to get trapped in--the only entry was also the only exit. Jaskier was no fool and probably knew quite well that no matter how much he might want to come to Geralt’s rescue, it simply wasn’t an option. He was also probably aware that the sooner he disappeared, the sooner Geralt could enact his own plans without concern for the bard’s wellbeing. It was best if they separated so that Campbell couldn’t continue to use them against each other. It was a dangerous situation to be in, especially since he had figured out exactly how important to each other they were. 

Jaskier  _ had  _ to get out.

Briefly, his thoughts flickered to Roach. She would be able to carry the bard out of town much faster than if he was on foot--he prayed that Jaskier remembered to take her. He prayed that she would cooperate. He had bribed her with enough sneaked treats to have earned her trust, but she could still be fickle and notoriously mischievous.

There was more shouting, and he heard several men stop outside the dungeon. Extra guards. Geralt scoffed--Campbell couldn’t have  _ both  _ of his prisoners escaping in the same night. A loud crack of thunder sounded outside. The wind picked up. 

He hated being trapped with nothing but his own thoughts, circling viciously. Scenarios kept playing out in his head: visions of Jaskier dying at the hands of a guard, almost but not quite making it out, getting to the doors and finding them barricaded--his imagination kept escalating until he wanted to tear his hair out. He felt as though the very walls were mocking his helplessness.

_ Come now, Geralt. Do you really think I can’t handle myself? I survived on the road for years before I met you--I know a thing or two about nobles with cobs up their asses. _

_ Worrying won’t help you, boy. It only builds upon itself until you can no longer take it. Don’t think. Just observe. _

_ Listen to the old man, my dear witcher. After all, you’ve still got to worry about how you’re getting  _ yourself  _ out of this mess.  _

_ Call me an old man again, bard. I know exactly ninety-three ways to kill you with only my left pinky finger. Geralt, you’d best teach the young man a lesson or two about cheek before bringing him to the Keep. _

When had he ever suggested bringing Jaskier to Kaer Morhen? And why was his internal monologue arguing with itself?

_ Oh, Vesemir. You wouldn’t harm an innocent bard, would you?  _

_ You bet your pretty little lute I will if you don’t learn some respect, boy. _

_ As if you know about respect.  _ Geralt winced at the retort, preparing to watch as Jaskier was killed painfully. Still, he continued.  _ You  _ raised  _ Geralt, and look at him! He doesn’t respect my music at all, and it wasn’t until a few months ago that he stopped trying to abandon me at every inn. _

_ I can’t say that I blame him. You’re damn annoying. Now, on the matter of killing you-- _

Geralt almost pleaded with them to stop arguing, before remembering that they were in his head and that he was in a dungeon somewhere in Redania. His thoughts had drifted down strange paths. Maybe his time in the dungeon had been more detrimental than he’d originally thought.

His increasingly concerning inner voices were interrupted by the sound of an explosion and glass shattering outside. Geralt leaped to his feet, as much as his restraints would allow, and found with frustration that he wasn’t quite tall enough to see through the window at the top of his cell. He jumped, trying to ignore the ridiculous clattering of iron against stone, and just made out a flash of Jaskier’s trademark blue doublet before it was gone. The guards were yelling again.

“It’s that damn bard!”

_ “Find him!”  _

There was the scuffling sound of feet traveling away and more voices.

“There’s glass everywhere--what was that?”

“I would guess a Molotov, but Campbell doesn’t keep bottles of alcohol around…”

Geralt couldn’t stifle a smile at that one. Jaskier had once regaled him with the tale of how he’d single-handedly sent a brothel up in flames with a makeshift firebomb after finding out that the women were being held against their will. His reasoning?  _ Well, it’s quite simple, Geralt dear. It's a bit difficult to imprison women in a whorehouse if there’s no whorehouse to speak of. And you know how I am. I can’t resist a bit of drama. _

It seemed that now was no exception. The firebomb sounded exactly like something Jaskier would do. The voices of the guards disappeared again as they followed the path they thought he’d taken. If he listened closely, he could make out Jaskier’s whisper from the stable, but the walls between them were thick and muffled it too much for him to understand what was being said. 

Several moments later, he heard the door creak open again and he stood on his toes, hooking his fingers on the ledge of the window. The stablehand he’d threatened on their first night, a small girl no older than 13, was darting rapidly about the courtyard, peeking around corners and sticking her head into doorways. Once she was satisfied with her search, she ducked back into the stable. Jaskier poked his head out after a few seconds, hair mussed from running and eyes bright. He had to consciously repress the urge to call out to him. If he caught the bard’s attention now, there was no chance he would leave without trying to bring him along. Which was exactly the scenario Geralt was trying to avoid.

Jaskier emerged from the stable, leading Roach and...another horse: dapple gray, sturdy, and expensive-looking. Geralt narrowed his eyes. The bard’s bleeding heart was going to get him into trouble one day. He had to know that they couldn’t afford to keep two horses, even between the coin that they both made. He mounted the new horse. She was beautiful, and Geralt couldn’t begrudge Jaskier too much for the decision…maybe if he had a horse of his own, he wouldn’t complain so much about walking. 

Still.

Where was he planning on hiding a  _ horse?  _ One man galloping through the streets with two mares was bound to draw some attention. 

Jaskier left the girl with a sloppy salute and nudged his mount into a canter. He’d only seen the bard ride a horse a few times, but he was skilled even with one that was unfamiliar. Geralt was mildly impressed; he had the feeling that if Jaskier had known that he was watching, he would’ve smirked in that way that he always did when he revealed some secret skill set. He mentally made a note to comment on it later.

He was pulled from his musings when the bottom fell out of the sky. Jaskier had disappeared from his sight, but if he listened hard enough, he could hear the sound of conversation.

_ “Move out of my way, and I won’t kill you.” _ Geralt felt his heart sink to his boots. The bard was putting on a brave face, but he could hear the minute tremble in his voice that signaled he was all but defeated. The heartbeats of at least a dozen men were faint--they were too far away for him to make out exactly how many there were--but his ears were so attuned to the sound of Jaskier’s own heart that he could pick it out. And it was racing. The telltale shuffling of armor told him that the men were moving.

“Come now, let’s be reasonable here…” It was difficult, even for his enhanced hearing, to make out the conversation over the patter of raindrops on the dirt, now falling more steadily.

The rainfall was all he heard for a beat, until Roach’s bray of alarm sounded across the courtyard, bouncing off of the maze of walls that made up the compound. All hell broke loose--the rain transformed from a steady shower to a deluge of water, falling hard enough that it nearly drowned out all other sounds. Water was pouring in a steady stream between the bars over his window, landing in the spot where he usually sat and saturating his boots. A puddle formed across the floor of his cell. 

The angry shouts of several men could be heard over the tumult. Geralt strained at his bonds, trying to get closer to the window. Water splashed on his face, and he picked up the earthy scent of freshly fallen rain. If he stood on the very tips of his toes and pulled himself up on the ledge of the window, he was at eye level with the ground. He ignored the water pouring down his front, thoroughly soaking him.

Then he heard the clashing of steel. His brain lurched back to images of their fight with the guards, of steel at his throat. Primal fear coursed through his veins.

_ “Jaskier!”  _ The bard’s name tore from his lips before he realized he’d said it, his voice harsh and coarse from days of disuse. He was fighting a losing battle against his protective instincts, heartbeat quickening with every clang of steel. He heard Roach snort nervously. His knuckles met the wall with a sickening  _ crunch _ that he didn’t feel. He watched idly as blood dripped between his fingers, unable to do anything but listen. 

“Unhorse him!”

Geralt prickled at the words and yanked at his chains. They rattled angrily at the movement but did not give.

_ “Dammit, Jaskier.  _ Get out of here!” He whispered fiercely. 

He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, a strange tension in the air around him. 

_ It almost felt like ma-- _

A resounding  _ CRACK,  _ like the sound of a dozen cannons firing at once, sent him reeling. His eyes, almost fully dilated to take in as much light as possible in the night, were wholly unprepared for the dazzling flash of light that accompanied the blast. He hissed and stumbled to the floor of his cell, blind and deaf. 

He couldn’t think properly. His eyes felt like they were sizzling and he couldn’t hear the sound of his own heart. He blinked rapidly, trying to force his body to work. The metallic, vaguely electric scent of ozone had burned his nostrils. He coughed, overwhelmed. 

After what could have been seconds or minutes, his vision began to filter back in. He lay on the floor of his cell, staring woozily at the ceiling. If he looked too far in one direction, it felt as if someone were driving a dagger into his eye sockets. High-pitched ringing assaulted his eardrums. He felt something trickle from his earlobe and into his hair. When he reached a hand up to the sensation, it came away bloody.

The ringing increased in intensity until suddenly, sound was back. The rain continued to pour outside. He shifted slowly and registered a splash; his cell had flooded to the point that if he were standing, his feet would be almost completely submerged. 

_ Jaskier.  _

He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the spinning of his surroundings, and managed to return to his earlier spot at the window. It was too dark outside, and spots still danced in his eyes. He couldn’t make out any motion, and his ears were more useless than a human’s for the moment. 

If the… _ explosion  _ had done that to  _ him,  _ and he was underground in a cell, chained to the wall…

Suddenly, he felt very faint. He dropped to his knees, bracing his palms on the wet stone floor of the cell. The bread he’d eaten at noon threatened to make a reappearance as he put together what he’d observed.

It had to have been lightning. And Jaskier had been on a horse, which placed him as the tallest person in the vicinity. That could only mean one thing.

His breathing stuttered to a halt, unable to continue without the knowledge that there was something,  _ someone, _ worth living for. It felt as though a stake had been driven through his chest and then yanked out without warning, leaving an empty void where his heart should’ve been.

Witchers don’t cry. It’s physically impossible, yet another piece of humanity stolen by the Trials. Geralt had never despised that fact more than at this moment. He threw his head back and tried for the next closest thing. 

The unearthly howl that escaped his throat rose up through the window, across the empty courtyard, and into the night sky where it was swallowed by the clouds, which continued to dump rain onto the earth below. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! I’ve been writing like a madman the past few days and I actually have somehow managed to develop a backlog of chapters. I won’t be posting them all at once (i like my safety net, what can i say?) This chapter is also a bit on the shorter side compared to earlier ones--I didn’t want to bore you all with descriptions of what you’ve already read in the previous chapter. Jaskier’s escape, as seen through Geralt’s eyes, and more introspection on Geralt’s part. Turns out, there's not much else to do when you’re sitting in a dungeon, alone for days. Takes place across the same timeline as the previous chapter. The one coming after this is LONG, i hope y’all are ready >:)  
> I'm curious to hear y'all's guesses on what's going on with jaskier, so throw them at me! as always, if you have a favorite part or enjoyed something in particular about my writing, let me know so I can keep doing it! love y'all!


	7. Merciful Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier deals with the aftermath of the fight at the gates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m SORRY that I keep introducing more OCs, I know that can be a major turn-off for some fic readers. Our boys are still the main focus, but it’s hard to work with what is quickly becoming a massive plot without named characters...that being said, I’m doing my best to make them likable. Hopefully they’re not unbearable, since they’re only here to push the plot along. I have to admit I’ve gotten kind of attached to Aldwin. Don’t worry--his story will be resolved in time.  
> Our story has split into two distinct POVs at this point since Geralt and Jaskier have been completely separated. This chapter is entirely from Jaskier’s POV. Also, fun easter egg that I didn't want to mention until the magic reveal, but there are a few places in previous chapters where you can kind of start to see his abilities, but he excuses them with things like "I've been trained for this," etc.  
> I've been swamped with lovely comments, and I don't have time to reply to them all, but I truly appreciate every single one of them!! They always put a big smile on my face, so thank you <3  
> The line from the song Jaskier sings is taken from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 104.

Jaskier only realized after he’d descended deep into the bowels of the city that nobody had ever been in pursuit of him. Those who might have followed still lay on the ground at Campbell’s castle. He didn’t know if they were unconscious or dead, and resolutely refused to dwell on the possibility that he’d killed twenty men. 

His clothes still smelled of ozone. 

He realized distantly that he must be in a state of shock; he felt numb to the world. He could see his own hands trembling where he held his horse’s reins, could feel Roach’s concerned nudges at his side. If Geralt had been there, he would’ve already noticed and thrown his own cloak over his shoulders. Probably would’ve begrudgingly patted him on the shoulder in some attempt at comfort. Maybe he would’ve even tried to fill the silence the way Jaskier usually did. Or, more likely, he would’ve stewed in furious silence, the gentleness of his touch betraying his worry.

But he wasn’t there. He was still underground in Campbell’s dungeon, where he’d been for days. Jaskier had failed to retrieve him, and he wanted to kick himself for not even trying to save the witcher. He could only imagine what would have happened, had their places been switched, but he knew that Geralt would never have left him behind.

He kept looking down, expecting to see sparks on his fingers. They still tingled, like the electricity had sunk below the surface of his skin. His body was going through the motions of riding, easily falling back into the skill despite not having truly ridden since he’d left Lettenhove. He felt oddly detached from his current situation.

Folk stared at him as he rode past, and he slowed to a canter. He could feel the mare’s sides heaving with the effort of such a long sustained gallop, and absently patted her neck in thanks. She snorted in irritation, but leaned into the touch all the same.

At some point, he realized that he’d left the richer district of town; this was more familiar. He was used to the cluttered condition of streets like these, the way the buildings all seemed just a little bit too close to each other, the sense of humanity that came with these places that was always absent in areas with more money. He could see himself performing here, a man of the people as he was. It was the time of night that the crowd at taverns began to pick up, and song spilled out into the street where doors were propped. His heart steadily slowed, and eventually found himself stopped in front of a homely inn. A sign at the door directed riders with horses to board to the stables down the street. 

He nudged his mare in that direction, clicking his tongue at Roach more out of habit than any real sense of control over her or the situation. He ducked as he rode under the doorframe. It smelled strongly of horse, but not disease. The rain had likely increased the strength of the smell, but it had long since stopped bothering him; he traveled with a man that reeked like animals or monsters more often than not. 

The stable boy looked up at him expectantly, dark brows furrowing slightly when he saw that he had Roach in tow and had yet to dismount his horse. Jaskier stared blankly at the far wall, still dazed.

Roach whuffled and butted him gently with her head. He startled and looked around, as if only just now realizing that he was no longer moving. The boy eyed him with trepidation. Jaskier’s thoughts felt like molasses. Finally, it clicked that he was waiting for him to do something.

“Are you alright, mister?” He spoke with a slight lilt, his voice teetering on a crack that spoke of late adolescence.

“Yeah. Just…a bit out of it, I suppose.”

He swallowed and slipped his toes from one of the stirrups. He stood in the saddle and swung his leg over the mare’s back, gripping the pommel with white knuckles. As soon as his boots touched the ground, he hissed in pain and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a groan, doubling over. Roach caught him with her head, hauling him back to his feet with a concerned whinny. He’d nearly forgotten about the skirmish with the guards before the explosion.

“Yer’ bleedin. Quite a lot, actually.” The boy mentioned helpfully, pointing as if he wasn’t sure if Jaskier was aware of the gaping wound in his leg. Jaskier looked down at his blood-soaked trousers, now thoroughly ruined, and his eyes widened minutely. 

So _that’s_ why he’d been getting all of those strange looks.

“Damn. These pants were practically new.” His eyes rolled back and he slumped bonelessly to the ground at Roach’s feet. She nickered and looked expectantly at the boy, who dropped his rake, eyes wide.

____

Detached recollections of his escape rolled fluidly through his head: _straw-colored hair, rolling thunder, flashing steel. His knuckles, bloodied and pale, gripping Roach’s lead like his life depended on it. The wind tossing his hair and drying the sweat on his temples as he fled down unnamed streets, trying to run from reality._

_Geralt’s voice, distant and disappointed._

_“Why did you leave me, bard?”_

_He reached out, trying to catch the fading vision of white and gold, but his witcher dissipated into mist before his eyes. He looked at his hands in horror, and they were bloody._

_“It’s time.” Another voice, this one haunting and inhuman._

_He yelled back, demanding answers, but he couldn’t hear his own shouts. His hands were fading. Darkness encroached._

Birdsong lilted through the air.

It wasn’t until he heard a sparrow’s call that he realized something wasn’t right. Though he wasn’t fully awake, there was already a niggling in the back of his head, telling him that something had gone horribly wrong. He struggled to hold on to the fading tendrils of his dream, but they slipped through his grasp like fine silk.

He shifted his arm and was surprised to find that he lay on something soft, though he was certain that wherever he’d gone to sleep had _not_ been a bed. Fuzzy images of a gray horse surfaced amid the claustrophobic darkness of his awareness.

There had been the fight in the courtyard, in front of the doors. He remembered that much. He’d spoken with the stable girl and stolen a horse.

And then there had been _that._ He couldn’t remember much after the explosion, having been deep into shock at that point. Had he truly killed all of those people? He was tempted to write it off as lightning--it had been storming, after all. But then he remembered the remainders of the electricity skipping across his skin, attracted to him like a magnet. And there was also the fact that neither he nor the horses had been affected by the flash, while all of his enemies had been laid out rather efficiently. Too efficiently for it to be coincidence.

That voice. It had scared him, but not because of its tone. No, it was the implications.

_Time for what?_

He cracked his eyes open and was met with what appeared to be a room at an inn. He was laid out on top of a bed, leg propped up on several pillows. He vaguely remembered the feeling of heat across his leg during the fight, and realized that one of the guards must have gotten a good hit in, after all. It throbbed uncomfortably, but it was bearable. The pinching sensation around the wound told him that it had been stitched, and white linen strips were wrapped around the entirety of his thigh. 

He looked around blearily, having accepted that whoever had gone to such great lengths to assure he lived couldn’t be an enemy. To his right, there was a table. Multiple empty tea cups were scattered across its surface, some of them chipped, as well as the remainder of a roll of bandages, a mortar and pestle. The smell of herbs was heavy in the air. A spool of thread and a curved needle lay next to a glass of water, seemingly left for him. Suddenly his mouth was very dry. He reached eagerly for it and downed its contents quickly, uncaring about the bit that escaped his mouth and dripped down his chin. 

Further away, Roach’s saddlebags, his pack, and his lute case rested against the leg of the chair, uncompromised. He hoped the horses had been taken care of. 

It was quiet, and he could make out no sounds beyond the door of his room. Early morning sunlight stretched across the wooden floor; hopefully, he’d only slept through the rest of the night, and not multiple days. There was no fire in the hearth, but the room was comfortably warm. One of the windows had been cracked open and a breeze drifted lazily past the curtains. He could hear the hustle and bustle of the street outside.

Just as he was considering the merits of getting up and exploring on his own, the door opened quietly and a small, elderly woman entered his room. He froze, wide-eyed. She finally seemed to realize he was awake, and perked up considerably.

“Ah! You’re awake!”

“That I am. Where am I? What happened? Are my horses okay? Who are you?” He propped his arms underneath him, struggling to sit up and wincing when it jostled his leg. She hummed disapprovingly and pushed him back against the headboard.

“Calm down, mister, you’ve only just woken.” She spoke with the same accent that the stable boy had.

“You’ve caused quite a stir. The whole town’s in uproar about the mysterious man who rode through the streets like a crazed phantom, riding two horses, trailing blood and sparks. Word travels quick, ‘round these here parts. I’d bet you have quite the tale to tell. My boy came bursting in last night, babbling nonsense about a bleeding man with _you_ in his arms. Made quite a scene--took a while to get the folk in the tavern to settle back down.

“To answer your questions: you’re at the Silver Oak inn. My son Altair carried you here after you fainted. Your horses are safe; I’ve put them up in the stables for now. My name is Rosa and I’m the innkeep. Anything I missed?”

Jaskier shook his head silently, still slightly wary.

“Why did you help me? You don’t know who I am.” Rosa smiled like she knew something he didn’t.

“Clearly, you were fleeing from something or someone. Most ‘round here only run from two things--Campbell, or Erik on the corner. Since you didn’t have any stolen bread on your person, I figured it was the former.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Jaskier shifted his leg and winced.

“Wouldn’t try to move that leg, were I you. ‘Twas a nasty cut. As for your question, well...most folks in Yarren don’t harbor much affection for the lord. Since it was only fair to assume you were fleeing from him, that makes us allies.” 

Yarren. That answered his long-standing question about the town’s name. The gears in Jaskier’s head were turning much slower than usual. His gaze lost focus as he tried to understand what she was saying.

“There’s got to be more to it than that. What aren’t you telling me?”

Rosa merely smiled and pushed a cup of hot tea, produced from thin air, into his hands. He frowned. She certainly hadn’t been carrying a pot when she’d entered, but he’d also just woken. 

“What do folks call you, dearie?” She deflected, busying herself with gathering the empty cups. Jaskier considered pushing for more information, but he was tired and the elderly woman wasn’t setting off any of his usual warning bells, despite her strange manner.

“People call me a great many things--bastard, scoundrel, whoreson--but I suppose I am to assume that you mean my name. I am Jaskier, the traveling bard.” He attempted a stiff bow from where he was seated, and Rosa rewarded him with a snort of amusement.

“A traveling bard, hmm? Not many of those these days. Get yourself into trouble with nobles often, do you?” Jaskier grinned widely.

“My lady, you don’t know the _half_ of it. Luckily, I’ve got a travel companion to watch my back.” He sobered quickly at the thought of his witcher, fading into darkness before he could reach him. Rosa picked up on the change in his demeanor quickly.

“Where is this companion now?” Jaskier took a sip of his tea and a shadow crossed his face.

“Still with Campbell.” He said darkly.

Rosa studied him curiously. He could see the pieces clicking together.

“I know why you look familiar! You were with that witcher, the day Campbell made such a production of escorting him to the gates of his castle. Is _he_ your travel companion?” Jaskier jumped quickly to Geralt’s defense, misunderstanding her tone.

“As a matter of fact, yes. And he’s quite a fine travel companion. I would even venture to say that he’s better than most humans.”

“No need to get worked up, dear. Like I said earlier--any enemy of Campbell’s is a friend of mine. I’ve learned not to judge others so quickly.” 

“You would be one of few, then.” Jaskier sighed, feeling strangely defeated. He stared into his tea, his own reflection feeling strangely unfamiliar. He looked like hell; his hair was disheveled, pale, and dark circles rested under his eyes. He frowned and took another sip. It was pleasantly warm, spiced with cinnamon and a hint of sugar.

Anxiety still fluttered in his gut. There were too many uncertainties to deal with, and he hadn’t been forced to take the role of fighter in years. It brought back unpleasant memories of his childhood in Lettenhove.

“Keep thinking like that and you’ll give yourself a headache. I’ll be back with food. Don’t do anything foolish.” Rosa admonished before slipping out into the hall. Jaskier bit his lip worriedly. He hated not knowing if Geralt was okay--he remembered Campbell’s threats well.

_“The witcher isn’t the only one here with things to lose. If you make good on your earlier promises, there might be some sort of accident.”_

He shuddered to think of what an _accident_ was in Campbell’s book. Gruesome images presented themselves unbidden, and he found himself cursing his creative imagination. He couldn’t bear that if something happened to Geralt, it would be his fault. And yet, he knew that the witcher would have _wanted_ him to leave him behind. That only made it that much worse, because he had listened. Jaskier’s presence could no longer be used against him. They were each others’ greatest weakness. With himself removed from the equation, there would be nothing holding Geralt back.

Before he could spiral further, Rosa returned with a plateful of honest-to-gods food. Not cheese and crackers. No, this was the real deal--stew, hearty and mouth-watering. Carrots and onions, beef, herbs, and a roll on the side. He thought he might faint.

 _“Melitele’s--_ ” he glanced quickly at Rosa and coughed, suddenly aware of his manners, “--ah, that is. Erm. Thank you. For the food.” He took the proffered plate, withering under her raised eyebrow.

“Your ears are red, bard. Is something the matter?”

“No! Nothing! Nothing at all.” He shoveled a mouthful of stew into his mouth before she could ask any more questions, allowing an indecorous moan to escape his lips. Rosa stood at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed and watched him critically.

“You eat like a starving man.” Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“You would, too, if you’d been subject to the diet I’ve been served for the last week. They were kind enough to provide a sandwich last night before my escape. I’m not usually picky, but I might actually vomit the next time I see a platter of cheese and crackers. ” His tone was light, but the associations that those foods had now...he shuddered just to think of it.

Rosa looked like she wanted to say something, but chose to refrain. She walked around to the table and pulled out the chair. Her tea had most definitely gone cold in the time she’d been gone to fetch the food, but she continued to drink it anyways.

“Why did Campbell want your witcher?” Jaskier swallowed before continuing.

“He’s being targeted by an assassin. Wanted Geralt to deal with it.” _Gods,_ the stew was incredible. He kept burning his mouth on it, but he was too impatient to wait for it to cool. 

“But you escaped? Why did you need to escape?” Jaskier bristled, but her expression held no accusation. She believed him.

“Geralt didn’t take the contract. He doesn’t kill humans. He’s a witcher, not a bounty hunter.” He shrugged. 

“So Campbell _imprisoned_ you?”

“Both of us, yeah. Wouldn’t have been an issue if I wasn’t there.” His stomach clenched uncomfortably as he realized how true the statement was. If he hadn’t opened his big mouth at dinner--

“What do you mean?” Jaskier sighed, realizing that Rosa wouldn’t cease her endless questioning until he told her the whole story. He wasn’t usually tight-lipped, but the encounter with Campbell, combined with the exhaustion plaguing him, had made him quiet.

“I let it slip that we’re close friends. Been traveling together for two years. Campbell decided to use that to his advantage. He drugged us, separated us. I woke up the next morning in a broom closet. They dragged me out when they’d brought Geralt to breakfast, and when he tried to tell the prick that he refused to take the contract, he set his guards on me. Long story short, I took a few punches to the stomach and he was dragged out of the room unconscious. Campbell implied that if I disappeared, the consequences for Geralt would be...unpleasant, to say the least.

“A few days later, one of his servants slipped me a key, but we were caught. I was forced to run. I left Geralt behind. Like a coward. For all I know, he’s already dead.” He was only half finished with his stew, but he’d suddenly lost his appetite. He turned his spoon over in the broth, stirring it aimlessly.

“You seem to be under the illusion that this is your fault.” Jaskier shot Rosa a sharp look. Who was she to presume his thoughts?

“Guilt is written all over your face, dear. Make no mistake; the only person in the wrong here is Campbell. He’s a master manipulator. He’d probably planned this whole thing before you’d even entered his walls.”

Jaskier thought back to their initial conversation with the lord. Geralt had been even more guarded than usual as soon as he’d laid eyes on Campbell. He’d been clear with him that it wasn’t the first time he’d been in a similar situation. 

He’d been suspicious from the start.

That made Jaskier wonder--had Campbell known about their connection before they’d even made it into the city limits? He knew that news of Geralt traveled far and wide--it was largely his doing. His songs were designed to do just that; spread the fame of the White Wolf. He couldn’t have his muse carrying the reputation of Butcher. It was easy for anyone who’d heard one of his songs to assume that whoever had written them held Geralt close to their heart.

Fuck.

Before he could start spiraling into another deluge of self-recrimination, Rosa interrupted his thoughts.

“Ah! Stop. Now.” She pointed a gnarled finger at him in warning. Jaskier eyed her curiously.

“I have a son. I know the look. Since you can’t seem to keep your thoughts under control, you can join me at the bar. My other guests require entertainment, and it happens that you are a bard. Stick to some more common songs, don’t introduce yourself as Jaskier, and I’m sure you will be fine. Better than remaining holed up in this room, endlessly berating yourself.”

Jaskier knew that she was making up excuses to spare his pride. While he didn’t deserve the mercy, he appreciated the gesture. Singing would be a welcome distraction from the disaster his life had become. He nodded his consent and shifted to the edge of the bed, wincing when his thigh twinged unhappily at the movement. Rosa mirrored his expression in sympathy and laid a placating hand on his shoulder.

“Just a moment. I will fetch my son to help. Don’t move.” Jaskier, surprised by the assertiveness, nodded meekly and stilled. Rosa flitted from the room in search of Altair. He heard her shuffle down the hallway, and a faint call across the street to the stables. Murmured conversation carried down the corridor as the pair returned to his room.

The young man opened the door cautiously, as if Jaskier would attack him if he came in too quickly. When his gaze lighted on the bard, he smiled broadly.

“Glad to see you are still in one piece. I was a bit worried when you fainted on the stable floor. Blood isn’t easy to clean up, you know. I should’ve waited and made you do it.” He chuckled, moving aside so his mother could enter as well.

“Don’t be an ass, Altair. Help the man to the tavern, and bring his lute.” And then she ducked out of the doorway, presumably returning to her usual routine. Jaskier was left alone with Altair, who fidgeted nervously.

“Your horses are beautiful.” He ventured. The bard almost laughed at the awkwardness of the statement, but stifled it when he saw how uncomfortable the boy actually was.

“Thank you. But the bay mare isn’t mine, she’s my friend’s. I’m merely babysitting, for lack of a better term. And I... _borrowed_ the other one.” He smirked. Altair looked at a horrible loss for how to respond to the statement. He fidgeted, reaching for some sort of appropriate answer. Jaskier took mercy on him and spoke.

“Your mother’s invited me to play for your guests. But I can’t really walk on my own, so…” He gestured helplessly at his leg, wrapped up as it was. The boy took it as the escape it was meant to be and skittered to his side.

“I can help you with that. You’ll need me to carry your lute, I s’pose?” Jaskier nodded affirmatively and within seconds the instrument was draped across the stable boy’s back.

“How do you want to do this?” Jaskier asked. He was used to Geralt’s silent and sure assistance, not the flighty and nervous fluttering of a teenager.

“Is it safe to assume you’d rather not be carried?” He ventured, unsure of himself. Jaskier smiled briefly, shaking his head.

“I’d prefer not, no. If you can just take the weight on my left side, I think I can manage.” Altair was happy to oblige. Jaskier shifted so that he sat on the edge of the bed, sweating from the exertion and pain of the movement. In that moment, he was amazed at Geralt’s ability to walk such grievous injuries off; his own wound was hardly a scratch in comparison and he was struggling to stand up, let alone battle monsters.

He could almost hear Geralt’s disbelieving scoff.

 _You’re human, bard. Don’t hold yourself to witcher standards._ Again, his voice was invading Jaskier’s thoughts. He tried to brush it off, focusing on the present.

“Okay. If you could just--” He didn’t need to finish his sentence before the young man had wedged himself into place underneath his arm. Together, they stood up. Jaskier hissed and nearly collapsed on the spot, but the support of the stable boy underneath him kept him standing. He took a few moments to orient himself and control his breathing before nodding in signal that he was ready to move.

It took a painfully long amount of time, full of colorful swears from Jaskier and an excessive amount of concern from Altair, for them to reach the main room. From there, he was led to sit next to the hearth, the most central location in the room. The fire was not lit, and there were only a few young men nursing drinks in the tavern. It was still relatively early, well before noon, so it made sense that the inn’s tavern was mostly empty. Jaskier nodded politely to Rosa, who was seated behind the bar next to the door, and accepted his lute from Altair. 

The few men who had been observing from their seats watched in fascination. Jaskier was sure he was a sight to behold; there were a few bloodstains on the otherwise pristine bandages circling his leg, and his beautiful blue trousers had been cut off at the thigh on his left leg. To complete the pathetic image, he’d been all but carried out in front of them. Trying to force down the blush he felt blooming on his cheeks, he went about tuning his lute for playing. 

Rosa had yet to mention payment to him, but he had a hard time believing that there wouldn’t be some price for his stay. It was obvious that either a healer had been sent for, or the old woman was versed in the ways of healing herself. And then there was the matter of the room and board he’d been treated to. The _least_ he could do was provide entertainment for her other guests.

Maybe he could offer to wash dishes.

The curious stares of the other patrons burned into him. He couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been among the people who’d seen him fleeing Campbell’s castle in the late night. Had they seen his face before?

He searched his internal directory for common songs before settling on a mild one about autumn and young love. He would need to consciously avoid his own works for now. Like Rosa had said, it was in his best interest to remain inconspicuous for the time being. He was sure that Campbell’s men had been dispatched to search for him, and he would not have his escape be for naught. 

He caught Rosa’s eye from across the room as he led into his first song. 

_“Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned,”_ She nodded her acknowledgement and went about wiping down the bar. The few guests that had been nursing their breakfasts perked up as he started singing, but their gazes quickly passed as the patrons returned to their meals. 

He kept his voice quiet and his lute low. It was still relatively early, not the time for rowdy songs or large crowds. He passed most of the day like that, taking breaks when there was nobody occupying the main room. Rosa was happy to provide refreshments and never mentioned anything about pay. That alone left Jaskier resolved to earn his keep until he was well enough to leave on his own. 

Twice he excused himself to change his bandages in the privacy of his room, but the wound was showing no signs of infection. In fact, it was healing a great deal faster than he would’ve expected from an as grievous as this one. He had the feeling that this new healing rate was not unrelated to the incident in the courtyard. Before he could read too much farther into _that_ line of thought, he heard the door to the inn open and hastened to finish redressing his leg.

As he sang, he let his mind wander. The songs he played were ones he’d learned during his years at Oxenfurt, and they were so familiar to him at this point that he didn’t need to think about them. He carefully avoided speculating about sparks and lightning, not quite ready to deal with the implications of the event. Instead, he thought of Geralt.

The witcher was undoubtedly formulating his own escape plan, now that Jaskier wasn’t a burden. But he’d seen the measures Campbell had taken to ensure he didn’t escape, and everything was up in the air after his own flight. The lord was unpredictable at best, and the few slip-ups that had revealed his more sinister side hadn’t gone unnoticed by the bard. He was making himself sick with worry. Rosa wasn’t blind to his demeanor. 

“Young man. Come here.” She pointed a crooked finger at him and beckoned him to the bar. Jaskier looked around and realized that the inn had once again emptied, and he had been singing to an unoccupied room. He shook his head and adjusted his lute so it rested on his back, reaching for the makeshift crutches that Altair had helpfully supplied.

He’d never used crutches before, and the learning curve was a great deal more difficult than he’d initially assumed. It took some effort, but he eventually hobbled over. Rosa gave him a stern glare and pointed at the stool in front of her, brooking no room for argument.

“Get out of your head, bard. You won’t be of any use to your witcher if you work yourself into such a state.” She deposited a plate of cut fruits and vegetables in front of him as she spoke.

“I appreciate this Rosa, but I can’t afford it,” he lamented, pushing it back in her direction.

“No arguments! You will pay by playing for my guests tonight. I will not hear another word.” She held up a hand as Jaskier opened his mouth to resist, and he yielded. That much, he could do.

He knew Rosa was right--sitting around moping and feeling guilty would do nothing to help Geralt. He needed to take action, and that started with healing properly. Which meant actually eating. An injured bard would be of little use in a heroic rescue. 

Rosa reached underneath the bar and produced one of the chipped teacups he’d seen on the table in his room when he’d woken up. He watched her idly, shoveling the vegetables into his mouth. He would need to acquire an apple for Roach at some point; he hadn’t forgotten his promise. 

She walked over to the water pump underneath the counter and filled up a teakettle before setting it on the stove. As she was about to light the fire, Altair slammed the door in, looking panicked. 

“Bard, you need to hide.” Jaskier felt his heart drop and reached for his crutches, food forgotten.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Rosa asked, snatching the half-eaten plate of vegetables from the counter.

“Campbell’s men. They just came by searching for a man that matches his description. They didn’t spot the horses, thank the gods, but they’re making their way down the street now. It’s only a matter of time before they demand to search the inn.” 

“Where am I supposed to go? If my damn leg wasn’t torn open, I could just run, but _fuck._ I won’t have you getting into trouble because of me. You’ve already been too kind.” Jaskier panted, situating the wooden crutches under his arms. He made for the door, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Not that way. Come here.” Rosa tugged him behind the bar and pointed under it. Two large wooden barrels, presumably full of ale, sat unthreateningly, with hardly enough space for a child to wedge between them.

“You must be kidding.” Rosa’s serious expression said she wasn’t.

“I can’t fit under there! They’ll see me!” Jaskier’s voice was edging towards panic. She flashed him a knowing smile.

“Not true, young bard.” Before he could splutter any more, she wrapped her arms around one of the barrels and tipped it back. Jaskier reached for her, sure she would be crushed, but she held it as if it weighed nothing. He heard the liquid inside sloshing and blinked in surprise. 

Of _course_ he would be taken in by the only elderly strongwoman in Redania. When could anything in his short life be blessedly _normal?_

As she muscled the barrel out of the way, Altair ducked underneath the counter and ran his fingers along the floor, searching for something. Finally, his nails caught on a notch and he tugged up. A trapdoor, large enough for a man and previously invisible, opened up. Jaskier’s gaze flicked between the secret door and the unassuming innkeeper, eyes comically wide as his jaw hit the floor.

“You don’t run an inn for this long without a few tricks up your sleeves.” Rosa chuckled. He remained frozen in shock.

“Quick, bard! In, in! We don’t have much time.” She gestured urgently. Altair actually _picked him up_ and dropped him as gently as possible into the hole. Jaskier was surprised at how far he fell, leg smarting in protest at the impact with the floor. He yelped and his voice echoed in the darkness. The opening was at least three full feet above him. He could just brush the ledge with his fingertips if he reached up. 

“Sorry!” Altair called down. Jaskier saw Rosa cuff him upside the head.

“What have I told you about throwing around injured men?” She scolded.

“I can’t see _anything_ down here!” Jaskier called, scrambling for his crutches. It wasn’t entirely true, as his eyes were adjusting quickly, but he would feel better if there was some actual light.

“Ah, shit. My apologies, bard.” Rosa murmured something that sounded like Elder (Jaskier, being fluent in the language himself, would know), and a torch flared to life on the wall behind him. He jumped back violently, nearly falling again.

“Melitele’s _tits!_ Any _other_ surprises for me, Rosa?!” He shouted, feeling faint.

“Try to stay quiet! We will fetch you once the danger has passed.” And then the door shut, and the scraping of the wooden barrel across the floor signaled that he was trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger, I know! Please don't kill me! *dodges rotten fruit*
> 
> Well, things are picking up for Jaskier! I've decided that for Plot Reasons, everyone in Yarren just hates Campbell with a burning passion, aside from his guards. I'm still not spilling the beans on what's happening with the lightning. It's coming, don't worry!
> 
> Coming next: we return to Geralt in the dungeon! I'm still editing the next chapter, so it'll be at least a few days. And do you know what motivates me to write faster???? You guessed it-- kudos and comments are my driving force, it feels less like I'm screaming into the void that way :)
> 
> I've had an idea in the last few days to mention a song at the beginning of some chapters--music is a huge part of my writing process. How would y'all feel if I provided a song for each chapter to set the vibe? I'd likely even go back and do it for previous chapters and MAYBE even previous works. Let me know if y'all are interested in that.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Waterfalls and Cobblestones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Jaskier runs, Geralt spirals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Long(ish) chapter! Geralt is a big emo boy in this one. Sorry not sorry ;)

Geralt jerked awake with a start. He’d spent the rest of the night in a numb haze, unable to accept what he’d heard. He must have fallen asleep just before dawn. His neck twinged at the mistreatment of sleeping sitting up. For one blissful moment, he forgot what had happened. Then he heard the rain and it all came rushing back.

He knew that it was illogical and frankly rather stupid to jump to conclusions ( _ now Geralt, you know what they say about assumptions! _ The bard had once said), but it was hard to believe that Jaskier was still alive after the massive explosion the night before. The sky was still gray outside, rain unrelenting, and the sun had only just started to rise behind the clouds. His thoughts warred with themselves; he couldn’t believe that he’d survived, but he couldn’t accept his death.

He’d known from the start that his lot in life was rotten, even by witcher standards. He didn’t like to wallow in his self-pity, but he’d spent the better part of his long life miserable and alone, winters at Kaer Morhen his only respite. Jaskier had been a ray of sunshine poking through the gloom, and for the last two years, he’d been on the edge of his seat, waiting for the other boot to drop. He guessed that this was the proverbial other boot.

The door at the top of the stairs opened. He hadn’t even heard the men approach, he’d been so entrenched in his own mind. A familiar-looking man was shoved down the stairs, nearly tumbling down the whole flight from the force. A guard followed, looking disgustingly smug.

The man was led (more  _ dragged,  _ really) to the cell neighboring Geralt’s and tossed inside unceremoniously. As the guard turned his key in the lock, he spoke.

“I always knew there was something off about you, old man. You’ll get what’s coming to you. Have fun with your new friend.”

The man looked up from where he had fallen, a spark of defiance flickering in his expression briefly. Geralt observed silently, vaguely surprised to have company. Then the guard was gone, laughing all the way, and he sized up his new neighbor. 

He was trembling fiercely, but his scent spoke of anger, not terror. Once he’d calmed down a bit, he seemed to notice that he wasn’t alone in the dungeon. He stared through the shared bars of their cells without fear, taking in Geralt’s sorry state. The rain had not stopped, and since the window above him had not miraculously disappeared, he was still actively being drenched. Truly a pitiable image to behold, he imagined.

“Has your back healed?” The man finally asked, and it clicked with Geralt that he was familiar because he had escorted Jaskier to the dungeon days ago. He had a vague memory of cool hands and his bard snapping at someone.

He grunted in response, nodding once.

“You’re Aldwin?”

“Yes.” 

“You helped Jaskier?”

“I did.” There was a beat of silence as Geralt looked him over once more. He looked like he’d been through hell; the last time he’d seen the man, he’d been composed. Now he was run down, brown hair falling in his eyes and still trembling. Tears in his clothing spoke of some sort of scuffle.

“Thank you. For helping him.” Geralt finally said. Aldwin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“For all the good it did, you’re welcome. Campbell says he’s dead. I’m not so sure.”

Geralt didn’t answer, but Aldwin didn’t seem to mind.

Even if Jaskier had survived, would he want to continue down the Path? Would he truly desire to stay by his side, even though it had led to nothing but trouble? Jaskier’s life would objectively be much safer, much easier, if he split ways with Geralt. He’d already stayed for too long, put up with too much, and for what? Thankless hours of travel, endless danger, long, cold nights on the Path, scorns and sneers from those who took issue with is company. He’d made it no secret that he could have a comfortable life in Oxenfurt. He could have a warm bed, a full stomach, and an enthusiastic audience, every night if he desired, and yet he’d chosen to follow a witcher around. Humans could only take so much inconvenience and pain before they became fed up. Maybe Campbell would be the last straw. Regardless of whether the bard was still alive, he was certain that he would no longer remain in his life after this ordeal concluded.

Water poured over him from the window, but he hardly noticed it. He could tell that he was shivering, could feel Aldwin’s concerned gaze boring silently into him. The rain had once been warm but as the storm roared on, it became icy. Though they were still a ways off from autumn, they were far enough north that the weather became unpredictable this time of year. 

He didn’t bother moving away from the waterfall. What was the point? Jaskier was gone. All because he’d refused a contract.

Vesemir’s voice was growling and grumbling at him, angry for the first time since he’d started hearing the old witcher. His head ached. The pressure behind his eyes spiked every time he blinked.

_ You need to start thinking. There will be time for grief later, but if you don’t start  _ moving,  _ the bard’s escape will have been for naught. No one will even know. At the very least, continue your duties as a witcher to honor him. Don’t make his songs be all for naught.  _

Hearing the voice of his mentor and father figure was irritating enough, but it was far worse when Jaskier started talking because he could no longer delude himself into believing that it was real. Not when the bard had likely been disintegrated by a bolt of lightning, or already traveled leagues away. Despite this logic, Jaskiers’ voice still pestered him relentlessly, ripping his heart to shreds with every word.

_ Come now, Geralt. It’s bollocks to waste away in this damn cell. _

_ The bard’s right, boy. Pull yourself together. _

Fuck. If his inner voices were agreeing, he truly  _ was  _ losing it.

He knew, deep down, that he was trying to console himself. That Jaskier and Vesimir were only in his mind, probably the result of numerous blows to the head, and that he needed to get a grip. The world still needed him. He was still a witcher, and there were still plenty of monsters to be killed. And yet, finding the motivation, even just to move out of the damn waterfall pouring into the dungeon, was nigh impossible. If Jaskier were there, he would make some sort of comment about how he looked like a sad drowned rat with a mocking strum of his lute.

He wrapped himself tighter around his knees, ignoring the wet jangling of chains against the floor, and buried his face in his arms. 

He hadn’t realized the extent of his affection towards the bard until he was forced to contemplate a life without him. It took the loss of his closest friend to realize that he didn’t want to go back to the way things had been before. The Path had been bearable with Jaskier. It had almost stopped feeling like work. There were things to look forward to with a friend. He’d started to appreciate the little details in a way he never had before meeting the young man.

He should never have allowed himself to become attached. He should’ve tried harder to leave him behind. The Path was not kind to witchers, and even less so to humans. 

Time passed. The rain eventually stopped, and he was left soaked in the pond that had once been a cell. His hair was plastered to his head. The water that dripped from his white strands was tinged darker with the blood from old wounds. He watched it, counting the drops as they fell.

The sun emerged again, defiant and irritating, and splashed into the dungeon mockingly. Geralt shifted slightly and straightened his back, wincing as the resounding crack of his spine echoed. He rolled his shoulders and rested his palms on his knees. Vesemir and Jaskier--no matter how imaginary--were right. Taking a deep breath, he settled into a light mediation. His emotions needed to be shoved into some dark corner of his brain, locked up tightly. He could handle them later when he wasn’t being forced to deal with the more immediate matter of his own unlikely escape. 

Sunlight appeared in the corner, a mere speck at first, and grew into the rectangle that traveled at an agonizing pace across the far wall. It was nearing the base of the stairs again before he moved from his position. 

His head had been throbbing since the explosion, and he’d gone completely numb from the waist down. He stifled a groan as he stood, his legs so cut off from circulation that he couldn’t even feel the pins and needles that usually accompanied movement. Water sloshed over his boots as he dragged himself up, wrapping his hands in the chains for support. Moving his legs when he could no longer feel them was a monumental task. Geralt was all but holding himself up with his grip on the wall, stomping his feet into the water in an effort to reintroduce blood to his muscles. Finally, in a wave of tortuous tingling, the feeling came rushing back. He hissed. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t pleasant either. He pounded his fist against his thighs, using the sensation to distract himself from his emotions. 

By the time his legs felt normal again, the sun had made it to the second stair. Aldwin was asleep, looking uncomfortable and exhausted. Geralt sank back to the floor, stretching out as far as he could go. His stomach rumbled hollowly. He hadn’t eaten in well over twenty-four hours. While such deprivation wouldn’t usually affect him, the food he’d been supplied with since their capture had been less than substantial. At least there was no shortage of water, he mused. He was beginning to feel shaky in the way that warned if he didn’t eat soon, there would be harsher consequences.

He hoped that they’d at least fed Jaskier well.

Before he could think much longer on that track, he veered back onto a safer route with almost blind panic.

_ Focus on the now. What can you feel?  _

He felt tired. Tired and wet. The water had started to drain past the stones in the floor, presumably into the ground below, but very slowly. It was still past his ankles, and he idly wondered what kind of lord didn’t put a drainage system in their cellar. It couldn’t be good for food stores, and probably invited no small number of pests.

_ What can you see? _

He saw stone. The dungeon had an abundance of the stuff. Stone floor, stone walls, stone ceiling; the only things that weren’t stone were the iron bars of his cell, too far away for him to even properly test against his strength. They were orange with rust, and he had a feeling that it was due to the substantial amount of dampness that permeated the room at all times. Maybe that was the reason for the chains; if he looked closely at the bars, it was clear that they were crumbling and ineffective at the base. But the chains had been a much more recent addition. They nearly looked new.

Campbell needed to invest in a better maintenance plan for his basement. It was hardly efficient to constantly replace things without solving the root of the problem.

As if the very thought of the lord had invited him into his presence, he heard twin sets of steps marching closer. The bolt at the top of the stairs slid out of place with a metallic bang. Aldwin startled awake, a hunted look in his eyes. Geralt nodded in the direction of the door, alerting him to their visitors.

The door swung open with a creak. Two men descended the stairs, and Geralt braced himself for some sort of conflict. Not once since he’d been thrown down in this wretched cell had more than one guard entered at once.

The men wore almost no armor but were heavily armed. One of them carried a crossbow, already loaded with a lethal-looking bolt. He scented the air, detected a hint of poison, and decided that he did not want to make either of these men angry. He didn’t move as they approached his cell, watching with feigned disinterest and a raised eyebrow. The one with the crossbow grimaced with distaste and looked down as water filled his boots.

“The Lord requests your presence for an audience.” Geralt almost rolled his eyes.

_ Careful,  _ Jaskier’s voice said.

“It’s been nearly two days. Could he not be bothered? I’m sure his schedule is just  _ packed  _ with important, angry visitors, but I thought that he hired me to take care of his assassin problem. Is his self-preservation  _ that  _ undeveloped?” He growled tiredly, leaning his head back on the wall and closing his eyes.

“Do not presume to know what Lord Campbell prioritizes. Your message was relayed, but there were extenuating circumstances that needed to be dealt with.”

“You mean his leverage is gone.” Geralt deadpanned, opening an eye.

“How--” Before the guard could finish his thought, he received a sharp elbow to the side from his partner.

“We’ll not continue this conversation further. We are here to escort you to Lord Campbell. If you cooperate, we won’t shoot you.” The man holding the keys gestured to the crossbow with a sinister smile.

“I’m always looking for an excuse to get some target practice in.” The other one sneered.

“Try anything, and I mean  _ anything  _ tricky, and it’s a bolt to the gut. We had this one and several others made up special for you.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m shaking in my boots.” He grumbled, barely reigning in a roll of his eyes. While he was itching to sink his fist into someone, fingers twitching in anticipation, he was  _ not _ anxious to find himself with a poisoned arrow in his stomach. He would have to choose his battles from here on out. 

Campbell was liable to increase security, now that he’d let it slip that he knew the lord no longer had anything to hold over his head. Somehow he doubted that the contract he’d been so kindly offered was still on the table. Maybe he’d get lucky and the assassin would take Campbell out before anything unsavory happened.

The taller of the two guards unlocked the door to his cell while the other kept his weapon trained on Geralt. He stalked over and began unlocking the cuffs around his ankles. He didn’t move as they were released, allowing his limbs to fall limply to the floor after each  _ click  _ of the lock. Aldwin observed from his cell, tension radiating off of him and looking like he desperately wanted to say something scathing, but his lips were pressed firmly together. Better not to invite trouble. Soon Geralt was freed from the accursed chains.

“Get up. No sudden movements, now.” He got his feet under himself and rose, one hand on the wall to steady himself. Even with the caution, gray static took over his vision and he stumbled. The grip on his shoulder tightened until fingernails were digging into his skin, the threat weighing heavy in the air, and he waited for his sight to clear before standing up fully.

“The Great White Wolf of Rivia has been reduced to this in mere days. It seems the songs were just that: songs.” The guard snarled, his voice cruel and sharp. Geralt saw red at the blatant insult to Jaskier’s talent but quickly stifled his anger.

_ Later,  _ he told himself.  _ You can get angry later.  _

Before he could get too comfortable, his hands were pulled behind his back and he could feel the scratch of rope as they were bound together, just a little bit too tight. He growled but said nothing, tolerating the unnecessary yanking.

The trio slogged through the water to the base of the stairs. The man with the crossbow followed him up, keeping the point of the arrow pressed to his back hard enough to carry the weight of threat. Geralt sighed in relief as they exited the dungeon, exhaling forcefully to remove the lingering scent of mildew from his nostrils.

The castle looked no different from the last time he’d seen it, though he didn’t remember this particular portion. The last time he’d been in these halls, he’d been unconscious and bleeding. If he took a deep enough breath, he could still detect the metallic scent of his blood on the stones, though they’d clearly been scrubbed.

He was led through the maze that made up Campbell’s castle and did his best to remember the route. Normally, it wouldn’t be an issue to memorize the building’s layout, but he was certain at this point that he’d sustained a rather severe concussion. Head injuries were some of the only things that a witcher’s advanced healing didn’t affect, an unfortunate flaw that had never been solved before the sacking of Kaer Morhen. Even with his advanced mutations, Geralt’s concussions only healed a little bit faster than a regular man’s. 

Portraits of what he assumed were Campbell’s family lined the walls leading up to the main entry. The oldest woman, he guessed to be Campbell’s wife. She possessed the same shrewd gaze and sharp nose that her husband did like she scrutinized everything that crossed her path. The two children, a son and a daughter, might have looked like any other child, except for the deep-seated discomfort in their postures. This was about what he had expected of the family of the lord--an equally cruel wife and two children that had yet to adopt their parents’ attitudes.

“What are you looking at, beast?” Geralt rolled his eyes as he was shoved again.

There were those infernal red doors again, imposing and ridiculous at the same time. They stopped in front of them, Geralt wedged between the two guards. He looked up, only just now taking notice of the ridiculously high ceilings and the equally ridiculous height of the doors. He had to suppress a scoff at the ceremony of it all; they were far too tall to be practical, which made them heavy and difficult to operate. 

The man on his right took a deep breath and announced himself to the painted wood.

“Lord Campbell, we have arrived with the witcher.” The sound of grunting came from the other side, and the doors were pulled open to reveal the interior. 

Where the table had once sat, piled high with food, there was now nothing but empty space. Directly across from the entrance, Campbell sat in a rather presumptuous chair, furnished with velvet that was no doubt intended to display his wealth.

_ Typical nobles,  _ his internal Jaskier quipped bitterly. Geralt was struck with the urge to hit himself in the head.

“You may approach.” Campbell looked a bit worse for the wear, compared to the last time Geralt had seen him. He still wore his expensive clothing, but his face was gaunt in a way that announced he hadn’t slept well in a few days. He was white-knuckling the armrest, and as they drew closer, he caught a whiff of raw anger mixed with embarrassment. The corners of Geralt’s mouth quirked up imperceptibly.

“Well, witcher. You had word sent to me that you know who wants me dead. I’m listening.” His voice betrayed none of his anger, calm and collected as ever. His lips had a cruel twist to them that Geralt hadn’t seen yet.

“I’m afraid that information is no longer on the table, Lord Campbell.” He sniffed. 

Campbell’s eye twitched.

“Explain.”

“I’ve decided that I’d rather the assassin complete their mission.”

Campbell’s mask shattered instantly. His eyes widened with rage and he stood up, marching so close to Geralt that his skin tingled unpleasantly at the proximity.

“May I remind you,” he hissed, “that you are in no position to bargain with me, witcher. Your bard is--”

“Gone.” Geralt interrupted, smiling dangerously.

Campbell was only shaken for a moment before he regained his momentum.

“Dead.” Campbell snarled, poking him hard in the chest. The word felt like a knife twisting in his gut, but he forced his feelings down.

“Which means you no longer have any leverage.”

“Quite the opposite, Butcher. I still have you. Perhaps not as persuasive as the bard, but I’m resourceful. I can work with what I’m given.” Campbell began circling him slowly, and Geralt almost laughed at the cliche of it all. Still, the hair on the back of his neck stood up when his enemy slipped out of his line of vision. 

“You’ll find I’m a sight more stubborn than your usual prey.” Geralt snarled, glaring at the sorry excuse for a throne.

“I have my ways, witcher. I might not be able to force you to protect me, but you have information I want.”

Suddenly, a fist closed in his hair and Campbell yanked his head back, leaving his throat exposed. A snarl escaped his lips and he bared his teeth, flashing fangs. Something cold and sharp pressed against his skin and the lord leaned in close.

“You may be a witcher, but I am a desperate man.” He breathed in his ear. Geralt fought the urge to vomit at the sensation, his skin crawling. 

“I won’t be very useful to you dead, Campbell.” He replied impassively. It would take more than a knife to scare him. The fingers tangled in his hair tightened and jerked his head even farther back. For an absurd moment, Geralt found himself missing the gentleness of Jaskier’s hands on his scalp, washing his hair, or braiding it in intricate patterns. It had been a while since his ridiculously long bath.

“Either you cooperate, witcher, or you’ll find that your stay is about to become  _ very  _ unpleasant.”

“As if what I’ve been treated to is a five-star experience. You won’t be getting any stellar reviews from me,” Geralt laughed coldly. The scent of sick satisfaction rolled off of the lord and he wanted to recoil in disgust. Campbell  _ wanted  _ him to resist.

After a few more moments, he released his grip and the knife disappeared. Geralt rolled his shoulders.

“Clearly you’ve made your decision. I would wish you luck, but, well. That would defeat the purpose! Goodbye, Geralt of Rivia. I can’t say it was a pleasure knowing you.” He waved flippantly at the door, and he was escorted out of the room.

The trip back to the dungeon was short and full of antagonizing insults and blows from the guards. They seemed to be looking for some sort of fight. Geralt wouldn’t have put up with it, except that the poisoned bolt was still trained on him at all times, and he was in no condition to dodge it. 

He had the niggling idea that it would be the last time for a while that he would be above ground. They reached the door, and the guard in front brought out the keys to unlock the heavy bolt across its width. Geralt weighed his meager options, and finding that he had none, decided to test his luck.

He whirled around, jumping to bring his arms in front of him, and grabbed the poisoned bolt’s shaft. It took the strength of both of his hands to wrench it out of his opponent’s grip. He snapped it in half against the wall, ignoring the protest of aching muscles, and tossed it as far down the hall as he could manage, all in the blink of an eye.

The man’s enraged shout alerted his partner to the commotion just as the door swung open, and he rolled to the side to dodge the punch that followed. As soon as he was on his feet again, he ran, stomach churning and head pounding at the sudden movement.

He heard  _ whap  _ of the bolt being released from the crossbow at the same time as his world tilted violently to the side. His concussion turned out to be a blessing in disguise, wrecked balance saving him from a shot that would’ve otherwise aimed true. The bolt sailed past him and through a window that shattered on impact.

He ran into the wall, shoulder scraping against the stone, and bounced back off of it to regain his balance. His arms and legs tingled as he ran, the poor excuse for food he’d been served over the last few days finally catching up with him. He would never take on a hunt in this condition, let alone try to fight humans. At least monsters were predictable. Humans were not, and he was exhausted.

He felt the whisper of air as another bolt flew over his shoulder, just barely missing him this time.

“You dolt! Stop wasting ammunition!” One of the guards shouted, keys jangling on his belt. Heavy footsteps followed him.

“What, do  _ you  _ want to shoot instead?!” The other one yelled back. There was the sound of tussling, and their voices grew a little bit fainter as they lost ground.

Geralt turned a corner, hair whipping around his face, and was met with four stunned-looking guards. He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide, and they stared at each other for a few seconds.

Then his brain kicked back into gear and he barreled between them, ignoring the shouts of protest that followed. The end of the hall was nearing, and he couldn’t remember which way to go.

Was it right? Left?

Fuck.

He veered left, praying that it was the correct path and slamming past two more men in the process. The windows stayed to his right, and though he could tell that the day was ending from the impending darkness, he couldn’t see the sunset.

He should’ve seen the sunset.

Left had been the wrong fucking choice.

He glanced over his shoulder, but the guards chasing him--there were quite a few of them now--were too close for him to reverse direction. He growled in frustration, twisting his hands in the rope in an effort to loosen it.

“Campbell’s going to  _ kill  _ us if he escapes, too!” 

“Damn it, Wulfric, you think I don’t know that?!” 

He brought the ropes to his teeth, hoping that his sharp fangs would actually serve some purpose for once.

There was another turn coming up. He chose to go right, wincing at the sudden realization that he was lost. 

Fucking concussions.

The hall that he went down was plunged into complete darkness, and he was only able to see thanks to his enhanced senses. He knocked over pedestals of armor and expensive trophies, hoping that they would slow down his pursuers.

He heard the telltale  _ thud  _ behind him as one of the men discovered his destruction and grinned. One down. The grin promptly slid off his face when he realized that at the end of the corridor was a door. 

It was closed.

He ran full speed at it, hoping to tear it off its hinges if he hit it hard enough. All he succeeded in doing was nearly dislocating his shoulder. Hissing in pain and frustration, he tried the handle and found it locked. Typical.

Another look over his shoulder, and though the men were still struggling to climb over the debris he had left, they were getting closer far too fast. 

He tried the handle again, rattling it desperately. It didn’t budge.

“Shit!” He shouted through clenched teeth. He didn’t have enough strength for what he was about to do, but he  _ definitely  _ wasn’t equipped to handle a fight with eight armed men while his hands were tied together. He cast Aard with some difficulty at the door, grunting with satisfaction when it splintered and toppled even as he nearly fell over himself.

He stumbled through the doorway, and his heart sank when it only led into an empty bedroom. There was a window, though. And,  _ thank the gods, _ he was on the ground floor. It took far too much effort to toss the side table through the glass, but the window shattered easily and he jumped through it just as the men burst into the room behind him, swords drawn.

The glass shards tore his hands to shreds as he braced himself on the window ledge, leaving bloody handprints. He rolled onto the grass outside and winced at the state of his palms, but then the guards were jumping out after him. He would have to worry about the cuts later.

He was in a courtyard, but this one was different from the one outside his cell. Exotic plants lined the wall and grass-covered the ground. A cobblestone path led away, and he followed it, hoping it would lead to an exit. 

He fled down the path, taking note of the high walls surrounding him. If there wasn’t an exit at the end of the walkway, he doubted there was an escape in his future. They were smooth, beautifully constructed but inconvenient for his purposes. And he still hadn’t managed to loose his hands from the rope. He’d all but lost his lead on the guards when he’d blown the door open, and he could practically feel their weapons at his heels.

The path was winding, and his endurance flagged the longer he ran. Aard had taken a lot out of him, and if it came to a fight he knew he would lose. His breath came in harsh pants. The newly healed scars across his back burned from abuse. 

An arrow embedded itself in the ground next to him. He jumped sideways and cursed, heart pounding wildly in his chest at almost human speed. 

Just because he was a witcher and he was  _ built  _ to withstand extremes of all kinds didn’t mean he was keen on the idea of spending an undetermined amount of time as Campbell’s personal plaything. He had a feeling that whatever the Lord had in store for him would be less than fun by any stretch of the imagination.

He rounded a corner and screeched to a stumbling halt as he stared up, muddy footprints skidding across the cobblestones. Resignation settled on his features. The walls of the compound loomed in front of him, tall and imposing and impossible to climb. He would make himself a perfect target if he even so much as  _ attempted _ to scale the monstrosity in front of him. 

He turned around, greeting his pursuers with grim determination. As they rode up, some of the men smiled in relief, others with much more sinister intent.

“Nowhere left to run, Butcher. it seems your little game is up.”

“Is  _ that  _ the best you can do? Do you know how overused that name is?” He groaned. Jaskier would be appalled at the banality of it all, would probably delay the fight for a solid ten minutes by lecturing them on the finer points of threatening your enemies. He missed the bard.

His comment did give the men some pause, but only for a moment. Then their weapons were trained on him, and he tensed into a fighting stance and internally cursed. Of course, he’d been trained to fight under any circumstances, but it was hard to react quickly when you didn’t have the benefit of two free hands.

He heard the whistle of an arrow through the air before he saw it, and ducked to avoid the projectile, but it still managed to graze his shoulder. It had come from behind him, and he looked up to see several archers perched on the top of the wall.

Of course. Whenever anything had the opportunity to go wrong, it would. He retreated until his back was against the wall, hoping the new position would make him a more difficult target. The guard he’d wrestled the crossbow from earlier stepped forward. He’d reloaded his weapon, and it was trained on him.

“Attack us, witcher, and you die. I won’t hesitate to bury this bolt in your heart.” Sweat dripped down his temple, red from running. He had gone from smug to furious, and Geralt detected no hint of a lie in his threat.

He considered his options. He was exhausted, shaking, and barely standing. His hands were completely covered in blood, and it trickled down his chest where the arrow had snagged him. He had enemies above and in front, and he was backed up against the wall with nowhere else to run. It was eight against one. Not only were they armed,  _ he wasn’t _ and he was handicapped at that.

They knew they had won.

He dropped his stance, shoulders slumping, and stepped forward.

“Fine.” He growled, squaring his jaw.

The man standing across from him looked almost upset that he’d surrendered. He was quickly surrounded, and the crossbow remained aimed at his chest. Two men approached him from behind and shoved to get him walking. He stalked slowly towards the castle he’d just fled, feeling suddenly very tired.

The trip back to the dungeon was a blur. He’d come down from the adrenaline high that had kept him standing, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse into a warm bed and sleep for the next week. A simple stop in town to resupply and rest had turned into a full-blown ordeal so quickly. He ached for the Path in a way he’d previously never thought possible. 

They were back in front of the door to the dungeon. He considered running again, but all eight guards had accompanied him this time. He wouldn’t be able to fight them all off, and he was so tired. Instead, he let them manhandle him down the stairs, making brief eye contact with Aldwin when he reached the bottom. The man took in his bloodied hands and shoulder quickly, but his eyes didn’t widen with worry until he saw his broken expression.

Geralt turned to make towards the cell he’d been in previously, but the grip on his arms tightened and he looked back in irritation.

“You are taking me back to my cell, are you not?” He growled, shuddering when he realized he’d called the cell _his_ . The floor was almost inviting, he was so bone-tired.

“We’re taking you to  _ a  _ cell, yes. But not that one.” He was shoved farther into the bowels of the dungeon, leaving Aldwin behind. Geralt looked back almost longingly. Whatever they had in store for him deeper in the dark halls couldn’t be pleasant.

They walked down a narrow passage, and it suddenly opened up into a much larger room. Dangling from the ceiling was a pair of shackles similar to the one’s he’d been locked in earlier, only these were dark and reflected a deep purple sheen across the surface.

He suddenly felt very sick, stomach dropping to his toes. 

There were no windows in the room. Increasingly insidious weapons lined the walls--whips, knives, and several devices too horrifying for description. There was another cell in the corner, smaller than the one he’d been in previously. It contained more chains, identical to the ones in the other room except that their material matched the pair on the ceiling. 

Dimeritium.

Geralt didn’t possess a large amount of Chaos, not in the way that mages or elves or fae did. But he was, by nature, a magic creature, created instead of born. So the sight of the hated metal was enough to make his knees weak. He’d dealt with it once before, and the experience hadn’t been pleasant. He wasn’t eager to repeat it.

He’d survived incomparable tortures during the Trials, things so terrible that even those who administered them paled when they spoke of them. He’d been  _ made  _ through pain; this shouldn’t have any effect on him. And yet, one look at the room and he knew that he wouldn’t leave unscathed, if he left at all. He’d always known he would die at the hands of a monster, he just hadn’t stopped to consider that they could also be human. 

They marched him across the room, and he complied numbly, mustering up a glare despite the hopelessness he felt. The guards merely scoffed, knowing there was no real threat behind the expression. He was escorted into the cell, and he watched warily as they circled around behind him. He knew better than to move--the man with the crossbow was looking rather trigger-happy.

Without warning, a boot connected with the backs of his knees and he fell to the floor with a grunt, kneecaps smacking against the stones. Heavy hands rested on his shoulders. One of them reached forward and pulled his arms up, sawing at the rope. At the same time, he heard the telltale rattle of chains that signaled they were preparing to lock him in.

He made a point in putting up some fight as they fixed the cuffs around his wrists, struggling against them as they pulled his arms towards the wall. Before they even touched his skin, he could feel the draining power in them; he growled and jerked forward, but he was outnumbered and they were stronger than they looked. He desperately searched for a reason to stop them. They weren’t really necessary, he reasoned; the bars in this cell looked a great deal stronger than the previous ones. 

He could just reveal the name of the nobles who’d sent the assassin. He harbored no soft spot for them. But aside from the fact that he had the idea it was no longer just a matter of information, but a matter of pride and principle, he also knew that he couldn’t sentence an entire family to death. He would survive this, just like he’d survived numerous previous horrors throughout his life. And if he didn't? 

Well. His brothers and Vesemir knew the risks of the Path. They would mourn him and move on. And anyone else surely wouldn’t miss him. His only regret was that he wouldn’t be buried at Kaer Morhen, but that had never been likely in the first place.

Then they closed, snapping into place, and that was it. The effect was immediate. He slumped forward, groaning weakly when his head hit the floor with a thud. He distantly felt them repeat the procedure at his ankles, and nearly vomited when they were finished. Sadistic laughter echoed in the chamber and wanted to growl in protest, but the sound wouldn’t reach his throat. He could only watch as they walked out and resign himself to his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a bit of timeline clarification: Chapters 7 and 8 happen on roughly the same timeline, with Geralt’s POV extending a bit farther beyond the events in Chapter 7. We’ll be picking back up where we left off with Jaskier in the next chapter, which I hope to have posted no later than Monday or Tuesday! I've already started on it, but it's proving rather difficult so I'll apologize in advance for any delay.  
> I live for comments and kudos! ;)


	9. Splintered Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier’s hold on what’s real and what’s not begins to slip just a bit. He decides this is a good time to finally mull over what happened at Campbell’s front doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly: I have a beta now????? The lovely ShyThrush (aloe-casia on tumblr) was ever so kind to offer to beta for me, and I was honored to accept. With her help, we’ll hopefully be avoiding the rampant grammar errors and repetitive phrases that haunt my work. Thank you so much!!  
> Secondly: I want to apologize for the unusual delay in getting this chapter to you all. Writer’s block hit me like a train and it took a hell of a lot of willpower to get through this one, despite how much I’m enjoying writing this story!  
> Without further ado, here’s the next chapter!

Jaskier groaned in irritation as he was plunged into near darkness.

“Wait just a minute now! I didn’t consent to this!” He yelled at the ceiling. The underside of the floor mocked him silently. Altair and Rosa’s voices above him were faint and he had the sense they were going to continue to ignore his protests. His heart was pounding wildly, adrenaline flooding his veins from the close call. His leg throbbed at the mistreatment of being all but tossed into the cellar, no matter how gently it had been. He hoped he hadn’t torn any stitches upon landing. There was no heat around the wound that might signal such a mishap, though, so he decided it was probably fine.

He took a moment to try to make sense of the blur of events that had just taken place. In the span of seconds, his life had gone from the usual amount of strange (arguably still outrageous in the eyes of most normal, respectable folk) to positively insane, even by his generous standards. The woman who’d taken him in after he’d fainted in front of her son and made a spectacle of himself in front of most of the town had turned out to be some sort of buff, elderly witch, and now he was hiding in a secret bunker underneath her inn.

Every time he thought his life couldn’t get more unbelievable, it did. He doubted he would ever convince Geralt of what had transpired. He would probably be accused of stretching the truth as he’d done for so many of his songs.

He tried to zero in on the conversation above him and found with surprise that if he focused, he could make out what they were saying as if he were standing next to them. Ever since his encounter at Campbell’s castle gates, his strange abilities had begun to awaken with increasing obviousness. He was beginning to wonder how many times he’d written them off as training or some other dubious excuse.

“That was a bit rude, Mum,” Altair said.

“We’ll apologize for shocking the poor boy later,  _ after _ we’ve dealt with Campbell’s men. You said they’re coming down the street? How much time do we have?”

Jaskier heard the sound of footsteps, and then the front door creaking. It slammed as it closed again, and Altair returned to the bar that doubled as the welcome desk.

“Next door now.”

“Lucky you got here when you did, then.”

Jaskier was about to yell at them again when the sound of the door opening silenced him. The heavy clunk of armored boots across the floorboards warned him that they were the very guests they’d been warned of.

“Gentlemen! You’re tracking mud all over my floor. I’ll have you know I just swept that. Come now, Jerald, I taught you better than this. I’ve been feeding your sorry arse for what--six years now? The doormat exists for a reason, boy.” Jaskier perked at the familiar name. Jerald was the boy who’d let him go in the stairwell.

Rosa was seemingly not out of surprises yet; how she was connected to the guard, Jaskier had no clue, though based on the scolding she’d taken him under her wing at some point. He tried to find a crack in the boards to peek through, but the floor was properly solid and he couldn’t see anything beyond his current surroundings. He’d never lamented the proper construction of an inn before, but he’d experienced a lot of firsts in the last few days.

There was the sound of apologetic murmuring and some uncomfortable shuffling closer to the door before it shut quietly. Judging by the clunk of boots, Jaskier guessed there were at least three guards, maybe four. 

“My apologies, Miss Rosa. We’re here searching for an escaped prisoner. Very dangerous, I might add.” Jerald’s voice cracked--he sounded none too sure about the “dangerous” part. Rosa, seemingly always up to a challenge, played up her shock almost to the point of parody.

“Good heavens! Escaped prisoner? Altair, you couldn’t be bothered to mention this when you came back for dinner?” She scolded. Jaskier imagined she was the picture of astonishment: a shaking hand on the breast, jaw agape, eyes wide. If his ears didn’t deceive him, he could hear her  _ tsking  _ at her son. 

“I’m sorry, Mum! They didn’t say  _ dangerous!”  _ Altair whined. Another soldier, taking his cue from their behavior, continued enthusiastically.

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Blew up the front doors, he did. Half of Campbell’s guard is down for the count, sent out to healers to patch them up.” A dramatic gasp from Rosa. Jaskier smirked in delight; this was a woman after his own heart, and she was laying it on thick.

“Melitele save us. Why was he taken prisoner?”

“Can’t rightly say, ma’am. But he sure did seem desperate to get out.” Jaskier had to stifle an incredulous scoff. Every guard in that castle knew exactly what had gone down and why he’d been running.

_ “Desperate to escape Campbell? Can’t imagine why,”  _ Altair coughed into his drink. Jaskier heard Rosa swat him across the back of the head.

“Well, dear boy, what did this man look like? Half the town was talking about someone fleeing through the night. Are they one and the same?”

“The man we’re looking for is fairly tall, just a bit taller than your boy here. Got scruffy brown hair and an impish face.”

“Ugh! I am  _ not  _ scruffy.” Jaskier whined, running a hand through his locks self-consciously. He felt his cheeks color. The guard continued with his description.

“Was wearing a ridiculous bright blue doublet and trousers, last we saw ‘im. Eyes near as bright a blue. Rode a gray horse and towed a brown one.” Jaskier felt a wave of indignation sweep through him at the unflattering description.

“My outfits are  _ not  _ ridiculous, not that I’d expect the likes of you to understand that,” He murmured, offended. It was true that he needed to consider the practicality of bright colors further after this, but that didn’t make them  _ ridiculous.  _

“If you’ve heard anything about this man or seen ‘im, Lord Campbell’s put out a reward of twenty-five hundred crowns for his capture.”

Altair choked on his drink, spluttering. Jaskier was inclined to agree with the boy; he suddenly felt very faint. Rosa remained unmoved, even as Jaskier heard her thumping Altair on the back.

“That’s a hefty sum,” she sounded impressed, “come to think of it, this man does sound rather familiar.”

Jaskier’s throat constricted, his heart pounding wildly. He heard a strangled sound of confusion from Altair. Rosa was going to sell him out. He fought off the urge to be sick as he searched for another exit. The room was full of wooden crates, presumably containing contraband merchandise. He shuffled around them with the help of his crutches, continuing to listen even as his head buzzed with disbelief at his bad luck.

“I seem to recall seeing you lot escort him directly from the city gates to the castle. Was in the company of a witcher, if I remember correctly. What were their crimes?”

“Threatening the life and wellbeing of the Lord, ma’am.” This voice was older, gruff.

Jaskier’s vision had adjusted so well that he could almost see as if he were in broad daylight. It frightened him terribly even as he filed it away to be dealt with later. He couldn’t afford to worry about such things now. It was only a matter of time before the trap door opened and the jig was up.

“Now wait, that’s not--” Jerald’s voice was suddenly muffled as if someone had clapped a hand over his mouth. There was more uncomfortable shuffling, and dust drifted from the boards to settle on Jaskier’s hair. He could almost picture Rosa’s raised eyebrow at their discordant interaction.

He scanned the walls again and--there! A small wooden door set into the stones. He would need to stoop slightly, but he could fit through it. He only hoped that the opening would lead to a larger hall; he was incapable of walking a long distance hunched over with his leg in the state it was in. 

“Well, dears, you know me. If I knew anything about the lad, I would’ve already sent you that direction. It’s a damn shame I haven’t seen him--I could use that reward money.”

Jaskier was so busy trying to pull the door open that he nearly missed her denial. When it finally registered, he nearly wept with relief. He was so tired of running. He sank to the ground against the wall, torch merrily crackling away above him.

“That’s too bad. Thank you kindly,” Jerald quipped, and then there were footsteps in the direction of the door. Suddenly he stumbled, and there was a sound like he’d been dragged back across the floor.

“Rosa. Kind, sweet Rosa. Would you be willing to host us for a few hours? We’ve been searching this blasted city all day for that damn bard. Our feet are tired and sore. We could sure use a drink and a bite to eat, and perhaps a seat to take a load off for a bit.” There was an icy silence. Jaskier could sense Rosa’s hesitation, could nearly follow her thoughts.

Obviously, she had no desire to host the company. But they were tiptoeing through a delicate dance, one that she’d clearly been through dozens of times before. Altair huffed in frustration from his seat at the bar.

“I suppose I can host you for a little while. You must be out by dinner rush, mind you!” Her voice carried a heavily veiled threat, and Jaskier wondered if they even picked up on it, even as he felt a stab of annoyance. Was he truly about the spend the next hours trapped in this windowless room just so Campbell’s guard could mooch off of an elderly witch? The flames above him flickered surreptitiously as if in warning. He took a deep breath to control his temper, which had become unusually fickle in a few short days.

“Altair,” Rosa barked, “you’ve been sitting at the bar for near half an hour now. Go back to the stables and tend to the horses. Take some food with you. Go, go!” She shooed him out the door and Jaskier heard her clearing the bartop for the men to sit down.

“What can I get for you lads?” She asked cooly. Jaskier suspected that if he wasn’t used to picking up the most minor nuances in Geralt’s tone, he would have missed the edge to her voice.

“It’s been a while since we last ate,” one of them ventured. Jaskier wanted to scream He’d hardly touched his well-deserved meal when he’d been thrown down into the darkness. That should be  _ his  _ food, by all rights.

“It won’t be on the house,” Rosa warned, the hard edge in her voice becoming more apparent. He felt a surge of self-righteousness. Jaskier wondered how often the guards came to the Silver Oak to take advantage of her hospitality.

“What about a discount then, eh?” One of them laughed nastily. He thought he heard Jerald groan in embarrassment at the sleazy question.

“Come, now, lads. I’ve got a business to run. If I gave a discount to everyone who walked in, I’d be long out of business by now. And I  _ know  _ how much you love my ale. Why, you’d be positively heartbroken if the inn weren’t around to serve it anymore.” Her voice traveled away as she scorned them. The telltale clinking of glasses told him that she was in the process of drying and putting away clean dishes.

“Oh alright, Rosa. We’ll pay in full. Give us whatever the special is.”

“That’s more like it.” A coin purse jingled. After a few moments, there was the unmistakable clunk of dishware on the bar as she served them their meals. Jaskier resigned himself to a few hours’ wait for the men to move on. His stomach rumbled in protest.

“Oh, hush.” He grumbled, hauling himself to his feet to explore the room. The cellar was small, but not oppressively so. The walls were slightly damp with condensation, and it was a sight cooler than it had been above the floor, Jaskier noted with a shiver. It smelled faintly of damp earth, but not mildew or rot. He ran his hand along the stone wall as he made his way around.

He wondered idly about the wooden crates. While he would usually hold no qualms about searching them for their contents, Rosa had already done a great deal to help him. It would be rude to repay her with snooping and looting, no matter how tempting it was. There were thirty or forty of the crates stacked around the perimeter of the room. He could only assume that whatever was in them wasn’t permitted in Yarren, or that she had some good reason for hiding them. Or else why would they be so well-hidden?

_ Maybe Rosa is a fisstech dealer.  _

The image of the humble innkeeper standing in shady corners and doling out pouches of the drug was so out of the blue and so ridiculous that he found himself dissolving into a fit of laughter. He stifled the sound with a hand over his mouth, hunching over in an effort to contain the noise. Even if she  _ were  _ a dealer, the thought was too comical to carry any smidgeon of reality behind it. It was more likely that she’d been harvesting potatoes from the moon. She was probably helping smuggle in expensive goods from other kingdoms to avoid outlandish taxes imposed by the king of Redania or Campbell himself. 

The vague flashes of the town he remembered from the previous night were proof enough that Campbell only cared about his own wellbeing. It came as no surprise to him that the innkeep was involved in illegal activities; in his experience, it was where tyrants ruled that the common people engaged in the most illicit activities. Where the wealthy district they’d walked through on their way to his castle had been bustling with life and full of colors, the poorer district had been the opposite. Filth lined the streets and folk wore haunted expressions on their faces. He’d inspired no small amount of fear with his dramatic run through town. Partially collapsed buildings had been left to fall, and the few guards he’d seen had seemed to be private hires. Suspicious-looking people wearing dark clothing had lurked in alleys, shrewd gazes trying to determine if he was worth robbing. There were no city measures for safety and security that he had seen. It was no wonder that everyone he’d met up to that point was happy to help him resist the lord’s rule.

He adjusted his position on the floor and drew his doublet tighter around him. The air in the cellar was just cool enough to give him a chill. The door was growing more tempting by the minute. Jaskier was noticing an alarming trend with potentially dangerous escapes and his desire to use them. Geralt wouldn’t approve of his self-preservation instincts. 

He had long since stopped paying attention to the bar above him, listening only the bare minimum so that he would be aware when Campbell’s men left. They were still stirring up plenty of racket above him, so much so that he didn’t even need to focus his newly sensitive ears to know they were still occupying the inn. 

Jaskier was not a patient man. He’d always known that it was one of his weaknesses, but the run-in with Campbell had truly solidified for him just how impatient he was. He could usually force himself to remain composed if the situation warranted it urgently, but this was not such a case. He was well-hidden from the guards, thanks to Rosa, and he was starving. He felt he had the right to be a little antsy. He sighed in resignation as he stood to begin pacing, determined to ignore the ache in his leg.

He could almost picture Geralt’s reproving glare. If the witcher were there, he would have already settled into a meditative state underneath the torch in the corner. He would be breathing deeply and deceptively slowly; to the casual observer, a meditating Geralt appeared completely unaware of the world around him, when in fact it was quite the opposite. 

_ Sit down, Jaskier. You’ll only aggravate your wound.  _ His imaginary Geralt opened one eye in irritation.

“Come on, Geralt! I’m  _ bored.  _ Couldn’t those damn guards have at least waited until I was done with my meal?” He chose not to overanalyze the fact that he was now speaking out loud to a delusion created by his own weary mind. 

_ Hmm. Try a nap.  _

Jaskier huffed. Even when the witcher wasn’t physically with him, he found ways to foil even the smallest of his plans. He flopped back onto the crate he’d been sitting on, propping his chin in his hand.

“Oh, Geralt. I wish you were truly here.”

_ Soon enough, bard. Have patience. _

He wanted to argue, but that would complete the image of a madman. Already, he was talking to a figment of his imagination. Not only  _ talking, _ but holding a full-blown conversation. Geralt wasn’t actually with him. And it was his fault. Clearly, the guilt was beginning to take its toll. The least he could do was listen to what his mental projection of Geralt was telling him to do--imaginary or not, he was rarely wrong in these types of situations.

“Okay. Patience. I can do patience. I’ll just….meditate or something.” Jaskier had watched Geralt meditate enough times to know the gist of it. Sit still, close your eyes, take deep breaths. He’d never actually asked Geralt what the purpose of it was, but he assumed that it was to clear one’s mind. He could use that.

He considered copying Geralt’s usual meditation position--to kneel, resting his palms on his thighs, back straight. But one look at his leg and he knew that wouldn’t be an option. Instead, he opted to sit back against the wall and stretch his legs out straight in front of him. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

_ One. Two. Three.  _

_ One. Two. Three.  _

_ One. Two. _

_ I wonder what caused the explosion at the gates.  _

_ Fuck.  _

_ “How  _ do you do this, Geralt?! Gods, clearing my mind is like trying to sneak up on you.” He huffed.

_ It’s not for everyone, bard.  _

“Yes, clearly.” 

What  _ had  _ caused the explosion? He walked through the event in his head again; it wasn’t hard to remember. It was the most fear, the most stress, he’d ever felt in his life. And the explosion had seemed to coincidentally happen at the same time as his emotions peaked. 

Perhaps it hadn’t been so coincidental. 

“Melitele’s blessed bosom. Do  _ I  _ have magic?”

Jaskier felt like the room was closing in on him. He shoved himself away from the wall he’d been propped against, head spinning. Geralt was still in the corner, but he was fuzzy and hard to focus on. He looked a little concerned.

“Gods, Geralt, this--this is too much. Me?  _ Magic?”  _

Chaos? In  _ his  _ blood? Why now? Why not earlier? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities--he knew of his father’s tendency to bed anything with a heartbeat. That had never been a secret. He knew that his father’s current wife wasn’t his mother, but he’d never been bothered by that. Never thought to ask questions about who had actually birthed him. Suddenly that information had become very important, and he had no one to ask about it except his imaginary manifestation of his best friend. 

“Geralt, do you know anything about magic and emotions?” 

_ Jaskier, I know as much as you do.  _ He grunted, exasperated.

“Shit. Right. Okay then. Come on, Jaskier. Get a grip.” He pinched himself a few times, just to confirm that he wasn’t dreaming. Maybe if he slapped himself hard enough, he’d wake up at an inn and find that this had all just been a bad dream, the result of too much to drink. He would trade a hangover for the past week’s events without a second thought.

_ Focus, Jaskier.  _

Right. Focus. He’d heard rumors of Cintran royalty possessing emotion-activated magic, before his lifetime. But he’d always assumed that those were just rumors. Now, he thought there might be some truth to them. 

And there were plenty of mages who’d had their conduit moments as a result of high emotions. He just didn’t understand why his abilities ( _ his abilities??  _ The thought alone was nearly enough to send him spiraling again) had waited until he was two decades into his existence to manifest. He’d been emotional before. His escape certainly wasn’t the first time in his life he’d felt afraid. So why now? Because they were more extreme? 

It wasn’t the first time his life had been at risk, either. He needed to figure out what had triggered the release of energy. The pulling feeling he’d gotten when it had happened seemed to imply that whatever had caused it had come from  _ him.  _ That was a frightening enough notion in itself--he had enough trouble as it was without adding “tendency to cause magic explosions when spooked” to the list. That would make him a liability on the Path with Geralt, and he couldn’t have that happening. Not when they’d finally established something along the lines of a friendship. 

He ran through his entire escape over and over again and kept coming to the same conclusion. Funnily enough, he’d already figured it out before without even realizing it. The only difference between his most recent brush with death and previous instances was the fact that this time, he hadn’t been alone. He’d been fighting his instinct to  _ protect  _ the entire time he’d been running. 

“So, what. I’ve got my cause, I’ve figured out what made this time different from every other time I’ve escaped a disgruntled nobleman. But why  _ you,  _ Geralt? What is it about you that finally snapped something inside me?” He spoke, nibbling his bottom lip in concentration.

_ Is it about me? Or is it about the principle of it? Maybe your instinct to protect made your emotions more volatile. _

“See, Geralt, now you’re thinking! I knew hallucinations weren’t useless.” Geralt only scoffed and went back to his meditation.

Heightened emotions had caused his very weak control over chaos to materialize. He could trigger powerful events using chaos, but he’d had little to no control over what had happened while he’d been panicking. But now that he knew about it? What now? Had it been a one-time thing, or could he call upon his abilities now that he was aware they existed?

Laughter exploded above him, and he jumped weakly when the pounding of an amused fist on the bar made the entire floor vibrate in response.

“Brutes,” he murmured, massaging his temples as he glared at the ceiling. Oh, how he wished he could send them away with naught but a thought.

Hmm. Now  _ there _ was an idea.

_ Jaskier…  _ Geralt warned, still kneeling in the corner. Both of his golden eyes were open now, boring into him with a warning he’d seen many times before. Jaskier knew the exact expression. He could swear the man had developed a sixth sense, specifically for detecting when he was about to act on another one of his half-baked ideas.

But was he truly Jaskier if not just a bit mad? After all, the first time he’d seen a witcher he’d promptly decided to spend the rest of his life trailing the man.

He knew how horribly wrong things could go if he fucked it up. But he was also curious; it was his fatal flaw. And he wanted to know: could he call upon chaos again? If so, that made him nearly indispensable to his witchery friend. He liked that idea; he didn’t want to be disposable. He just needed control. That begged the question: how much? 

He was already bored. What was there to lose?

Summoning his courage, he focused on the presence of the men above him. Maybe if he could just...project some feeling of unease upon them. Enough to give them a gentle nudge out the door. After all, he didn’t want to actually hurt them, especially since he still owed Jerald a debt. He just wanted them to leave, stop bothering Rosa, and allow him to eat before his performance.

He focused all of his senses on the commotion above him. He could picture the men, sitting on the barstools and shoveling their food into their mouths without a second thought. Taking up valuable space that would need to be cleaned up before it could serve more customers. The dinner rush was getting closer. It shouldn’t take too much suggestion. 

“Come on now,  _ come on…”  _ Jaskier pressed his fingertips to his temples, brow furrowing in concentration. He began to feel a warm pull in his chest, just below his sternum. It was faint but similar to the sensation he’d felt in the courtyard behind Campbell’s gates. He zeroed in on it, nurturing the small flame of energy he found there.

It flickered and nearly went out, but he focused harder and felt it stabilize. It was a pretty little thing, containing a scary amount of potential.

In retrospect, Jaskier should have known better than to tamper with things he didn’t truly understand. There was a reason that mages received such extensive training before they were allowed to practice magic on their own.

Jaskier blew gently on the flame, nurtured it with care, and it began to grow. At first, it was slow, but it began to increase in size faster the larger it got. It was just like starting a campfire, he mused. He’d done that plenty of times, understood the principle behind it. Perhaps this flame was a bit more metaphysical than he was used to, but it was still fire. Still had the same basic properties as fire. 

As he let his thoughts meander on the finer details of starting a campfire, he allowed his focus to slip for just a moment. But that was enough. 

Suddenly, the flame flared violently, like he’d added too much fuel too quickly. The pull in his chest became sharp and painful, like a blade digging in far too deep. He grunted in alarm and tried to pull back.

_ “Shit--”  _ It grew larger in the blink of an eye, reacting to his panic, and Jaskier belatedly realized that the wooden crates around him had begun humming with energy quietly. When the flame flared, the rattling increased in volume until it reached its peak. All around him, the crates vibrated like they would shake apart under their own weight. The one he was sitting on rose off the ground several inches without warning, and he yelped in surprise.

His panic was swirling now. His crutches slipped from where he’d rested them against the wall and clattered to the floor, impossibly loud. He glanced up at the ceiling, but he couldn’t hear if the upstairs had gone silent over the roar in his own head. The crate he was sitting on creaked in warning, splinters launching themselves against the stone walls.

_ “Oh, fuck--stop stop stop stopstop--”  _

He pressed his palms against his ears. The vibrating had increased in pitch to a ringing sound that made him want to scream. He bared his teeth against it as the pull in his chest became nearly unbearable. He’d fucked up, made a grave,  _ grave mistake,  _ and now he was going to pay for it--

In a last-ditch attempt to control the Chaos around him, he cupped a shaking hand around the flame in his chest and blew on it,  _ hard.  _

The box underneath him shattered angrily, blowing in all directions. He fell to the dirt floor with a heavy  _ thud,  _ groaning against the impact against his already abused body. Pieces of wood clattered over the crates to the ground. Over the sound of his own panting, the raucous laughter of the men above him continued.

He looked carefully inward and was relieved to see that the flame had vanished to a very tiny ember. The only sign that it had ever been there was a thin wisp of smoke dissipating into the dark. 

For a moment, he just lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling in shock and collecting himself. The voices above him didn’t even sound suspicious; they hadn’t heard a thing. He wasn’t sure how, but he wasn’t about to question it.

His heart thundered in his chest. Geralt stared at him from the corner, unimpressed and smirking knowingly.

_ I did try to warn you, you know. _

“Shut up. You’re not real.” Jaskier sighed, placing a hand on his racing heart and trying to ignore the way his voice shook traitorously. His head was still spinning and his ears buzzed from the discharge of energy. He felt drained.

He distantly recognized that his breathing was far too fast and tried to slow his respiration to something a bit more reasonable. 

“What the fuck  _ was  _ that?” He wondered aloud. He’d felt… _ off… _ since he’d woken at the inn. But he’d chalked it up to a grievous wound and blood loss. Now, he realized that some part of him truly had been awakened by what had happened at the gates. It hadn’t just been a fluke or a one-time blessing, and it scared him tremendously. 

“What would have happened if I hadn’t been able to stop it? Just now, I mean. A repeat of the gates? Something  _ worse?”  _ He gasped in horror.

_ This is why you shouldn’t play with things you don’t yet understand.  _ Geralt scolded. Jaskier knew he was right, but he didn’t have to like it.

“I thought I told you to shut up.”

_ Oh, how the tables have turned. _

Jaskier hated his internal voices. That one of them had materialized into a full-on projection of his best friend just added insult to injury. He’d always had a habit of fabricating imaginary companions to keep him company in high-stress situations, but now it was biting him in the ass. 

“I wish you were with me.  _ Actually  _ with me. I’d much rather have the  _ real  _ Geralt here than some ridiculous caricature of the man I know.” He sighed with longing, running a hand through his hair and only succeeding in mussing it further.

He gradually realized that his leg was throbbing in protest at the position he was in; he’d simply remained where he’d landed, sprawled on the floor with limbs splayed out. He groaned tiredly as he sat up and leaned against the wall. The stones were cool on his back and helped him to ground himself somewhat. His tailbone was sore. Apparently he’d landed on it. 

His chest still held the echo of the terrifying draining pull he’d felt in it earlier. He rubbed at it absently, willing the unsettling feeling to go away.

He would have to explain the mess to Rosa. That was going to be awkward. He was used to explaining his lack of impulse control to others, but it didn’t usually involve someone he was greatly indebted to. At least the box had been blessedly empty--he would’ve felt even guiltier, had he managed to destroy whatever secret stash she had hidden.

If he’d thought the door was tempting before, that was nothing compared to now. Jaskier was absurdly used to running when he was facing down problems. He’d run from Lettenhove and his family in his early youth, he’d run from angry spouses when he was discovered under forbidden sheets, and he’d run from Campbell even as his proclaimed “very best friend in the whole wide world” remained trapped in his dungeon. And here he was again, facing yet another opportunity to leave it all behind. He was so, so tempted to run from whatever beast he’d just unleashed from himself in this cellar. But he had the sinking feeling that this was one problem he couldn’t outrun. It would be a bit difficult to escape something that was a part of him. Besides, he couldn’t keep running forever. And Rosa deserved an explanation at the very least. She’d taken him in, despite the risk to herself and her son, and he refused to repay her by leaving a mess in her hidden bunker.

Geralt was observing him from the corner, one eyebrow raised in a skeptical glare.

_ “What,  _ Geralt? What do you want? Why are you bothering me? I’m working on getting you out. I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry it’s taking so damn long. I’m sorry for a lot of things, I guess.” 

_ If you don’t know why I’m here, then how the fuck am I supposed to know? I’m in your head, bard.  _ Jaskier sighed heavily and dropped his head to his knee.

“I know, Geralt. I know.”

_ You feel guilty.  _ It wasn’t a question.

_ “Yes,  _ you stupid, stubborn man! I feel guilty! I  _ left  _ you!” He all but shouted, careful to keep his voice low enough that those above him wouldn’t hear it. 

_ I can’t console you, Jaskier. Not in the way you want me to. You said it yourself; I’m not real. Besides, imagine if the  _ real  _ me talked this much. Your jaw would drop clear through the floor. You’d probably accuse me of being a doppler.  _

Jaskier managed a raspy laugh at the mental image, even as his throat closed and his eyes threatened tears. Throughout the whole ordeal, he’d managed to put on a brave face. He needed to hold it together. There wasn’t time for a breakdown yet. Jaskier was used to threats that didn’t involve too much of his input. Usually, he was the one stuck somewhere and he just needed to cooperate long enough to get out. He could hold his own in a fight as well as the next man, arguably even better than the next man. But this was a level of fear and responsibility he’d never experienced before. He’d left Lettenhove all those years ago to escape obligation to other people. He was a free bird, not used to being tied to another. He wasn’t scared for himself--though he was frightened by the whole  _ spontaneously manifesting powers  _ thing--but for Geralt. He was hard-pressed to remember a time when he was actually close enough to another human being to fear losing them. But at some point, Geralt had gone from a passing interest into something much more.

He would need to worry about the confusing whirlwind of indecipherable feelings later, though, because he could hear footsteps approaching behind the door he’d yet to open.

Staggering to his feet, he lifted one of his crutches in what he hoped was a threatening manner and glared at the door as the handle rattled. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Imaginary Geralt roll his eyes.

“Will you just let me pretend that I’m capable of defending myself?” He growled, looking away from the door for a split second to stare down his hallucination.

Poor Altair. Upon opening the door and seeing Jaskier talking to the wall, he pulled it closed again. The boy could only take so much insanity.

“Wait a minute, was that Altair?” When he turned back to the corner, Geralt had disappeared.

“Fuck. I’m losing it. Altair!!” He hobbled to the door and yanked it open to find the young man staring at him, wide-eyed. He was holding a plate of food and a drink in one hand and still held the door handle in the other.

“Erm…are you alright?” He ventured nervously. Jaskier laughed, uncomfortably aware of how unhinged he probably appeared.

“Oh, yeah, that? Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Please, come in.” Jaskier backed up and gestured to the room, wincing when Altair’s eyes landed on the exploded wooden crate scattered across the floor. The teen walked in slowly as if he was afraid to spook Jaskier.

“Uh. Did you do this?” He waved a hand at the debris. Jaskier swallowed hard and pulled the collar of his shirt away from his neck.

“It was an accident…?” He tried weakly.

“You know what? I’m not going to ask, that’s for Mum to worry about.” He said, regaining some of his earlier confidence. Jaskier allowed himself a sigh of relief. He turned away from the door and nearly toppled over backward when he spotted Geralt back in the corner, eyeing him with a mischievous grin. His reaction didn’t go unnoticed by the stablehand.

“Mister Jaskier. Are you quite alright? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Jaskier’s eyes flicked between the corner and Altair with uncertainty.

“I certainly hope it’s not a ghost, or I’ve got bigger problems to worry about. But. Well. I may or may not be having a psychotic break.” He sat down heavily on another crate, taking the plate and the mug that Altair offered.

“...a psychotic break?”

“Yes, well--you see. I’ve been dealing with a lot of stress lately. More than usual, anyway. Near a week locked up at Campbell’s. Then the escape, and the  _ whatever-that-was,  _ and the passing out rather dramatically in your stables. And now the guards are here searching for me while I’m holed up in a secret cellar and your mother healed me and also knows magic and she’s  _ helping me  _ for some reason? And you’ve brought me food and I made a crate explode with my  _ mind  _ and now I’m  _ seeing my best friends in corners and he’s mocking me as we speak--”  _ Jaskier stopped to take several heaving breaths, realizing that he had slipped off the crate at some point and was back on the floor. 

Altair was kneeling next to him, rubbing a comforting hand across his back. Geralt put his thumbs in his ears and stuck his tongue out at him from across the room. Jaskier whimpered.

“That’s a lot for anyone. I’d say you’re entitled to a bit of a break, honestly. No pun intended,” Altair tried, looking deep into his eyes for a sign of awareness.

“Maybe try to eat, yeah? Before it goes cold?” He nudged the plate back into Jaskier’s hands, and he took it shakily.

“Yeah. Alright. Sorry. I’m just. Dealing with a lot right now.” 

_ You already said that. _

He ran a hand across his face and sat up straighter, shooting a glare at the corner.

“It’s ok. Mum kind of suspected that something like this would happen.” Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him as he took a bite, pointedly ignoring Geralt doing a jig in the corner.

“Not the--y’know, this. But the stress.” Altair corrected, taking in the scraps of wood thrown across the cellar floor.

“But she’ll be able to help you with that side of things, too, if you let her.” Jaskier had scarfed down the entire meal in less than a minute, and Altair was torn between impressed and scared. The bard picked up on his expression and winced.

“Though I’m frankly doing a piss-poor job of showing it, I’m not usually this unhinged. First impressions and all. I would like to  _ fervently  _ apologize for all of this,” He muttered, scratching his neck sheepishly.

“We’ll worry about it once we’ve got those damn guards out of here. I hate it when they show up.” Altair grumbled.

“That makes two of us, then.” Jaskier sighed. Geralt had settled back into his meditative position.

“Can your mother help me with hallucinations?” Jaskier blurted, staring at his witcher and again wishing desperately that he was real.

“You’re hallucinating?” Altair replied with some surprise. Jaskier huffed something between a laugh and a groan. 

“Yeah. He’s sitting in the corner right now, meditating.”

“Oh.” They lapsed into an exceedingly awkward silence. Altair looked like he wanted to pat Jaskier on the back again.

“Come to think of it… are  _ you  _ even real?” Jaskier poked the young man in the shoulder. Altair looked offended and gently pushed his hand away.

“Yes, very much so. She can probably help with your hallucinations, too. When was the last time you got a good night’s sleep?”

Jaskier actually had to think about that one, which was answer enough. It’d been at least several days since he’d had uninterrupted sleep, and he wasn’t sure if the night before really counted. He’d been unconscious, not  _ asleep,  _ per se. All in all, he would have to say that he hadn’t truly slept well since before they’d entered Yarren a week ago.

“You make a compelling point.” He relented.

“Before going and getting too worked up, you should try that. Does wonders, sleep.”

“How long until the dinner rush? As enchanting as this cellar is, I’d rather not spend any more time down here than strictly necessary.” He didn’t mention that it reminded him  _ just  _ enough of the dungeon to make his skin crawl, but Altair seemed to pick up on the hint easily enough.

“Soon. Mayhaps a bit sooner than is strictly true,” Altair winked. As if on cue, the scraping of stools across the floorboards signaled that several guests were riding to take their leave. Jaskier glanced up involuntarily.

“Sit tight. I’ll check if that’s them.” The stable boy gave him a  _ stay put  _ gesture and slipped through the door without another word. Jaskier, left alone aside from the company of his hallucinated witcher, leaned back against the wall in a failed attempt to relax.

_ The boy’s right, bard. You look exhausted.  _

“Yes, thank you for the observation, Geralt. As if I weren’t already fully aware of my own exhaustion.” He rolled his eyes.

_ Do you realize how pointless it is to argue with a hallucination? Everything I say is coming from  _ your  _ head. _

“Well, you’re making it awfully easy! How am I supposed to ignore you when you keep provoking me? What was the big idea with the antics earlier, anyways? Are you  _ trying  _ to make me look crazy? You’ll only get us both into trouble--me and the  _ real  _ you--if I get kicked out of Rosa’s for being a madman, Geralt.”

_ What antics? _

“Don’t play dumb. Your little dance earlier nearly made me choke on my food.”

_ Hmm.  _ That was more like it. Jaskier sat in tense silence and looked at everything besides the witcher under the torch. He hoped Altair returned with good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My to-do list of fics just keeps getting longer, because the muse never rests. Ever, it seems. I’m debating starting another fic as I work on this, just to keep things spicy, but I also have a notoriously bad habit of losing my motivation and not seeing things through. Posting on ao3 and knowing I have people waiting has been holding me accountable though, so that’s good! I have at least three or four additional story ideas backed up in the queue right now and they’ve been simmering for a while, so I’ll probably start outlining those soon.  
> I’d like to again extend my enthusiastic thanks to ShyThrush for beta’ing for me!!  
> Up next: we return to Campbell's dungeon to see how Geralt is doing.


	10. Falling out of Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Campbell have some one-on-one time. There are lots of sharp things involved. Geralt questions what lies in his future, if he even has one.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: torture, touching without consent, Campbell just being a creep in general
> 
> HEED THE CONTENT WARNINGS!!
> 
> Yeah ok so this chapter isn’t for the faint of heart! Please heed the warnings as this chapter contains some potentially triggering content!  
> As always I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to ShyThrush for taking the time to beta my writing and fix the rampant typos in this chapter. You're a blessing!  
> You know how I keep saying it’s going to get worse before it gets better? Well this is It. This is Worse. Geralt is straight up Not Having a Good Time. There’s some touching without consent but it never becomes sexual in any manner, just uber creepy. This is all angst and hurt-no-comfort at this point (comfort is coming, I promise!). Gotta tear our poor witcher down some more before I start to build him up again.  
> A quick disclaimer: I’ve mentioned before that I’m playing fast-and-loose with canon rules. That being said, I did a shit ton of research and couldn’t find ANYTHING on poison in relation to witchers (aside from the common knowledge that witcher potions are deadly to humans), so I’m using information from the real world and my own creative license in this case. As a side note, while researching poisonous plants I discovered that a ton of the plants you can pick in the Witcher 3 are known to be toxic, if not deadly to humans!  
> We're celebrating a lot of milestones! Chapter 10! Also 50K words!! I never intended for this to get as long as it did but we all see how that went and there’s still a good chunk of the story left. This is, to date, the longest thing I have ever written. Thanks for continuing to stick with me, y’all. Also, I know this author’s note is stupid long so if you’ve made it this far thanks for reading it lol.

It had taken them a frankly alarmingly short time to subdue him into complacency, though they were helped along in no small amount by the dimeritium. It had made their job much easier when he barely possessed the energy to move, let alone fight them. He’d forgotten just how hollow the stuff made him feel, like he was drained of a part of himself. 

He’d never been exposed to it in such a high concentration--it was expensive, so the fact that Campbell had as much as he did was a testament to his wealth. He’d had a brief run-in with a blade forged with perhaps a thimbleful of the powder a few decades back, but the steel-to-dimeritium ratio in that weapon had been much lower than what was in the chains locked around his limbs. His skin chafed and cried out any time it came into contact and he’d taken to moving as little as possible to avoid irritating his already abused joints. His wrists, usually pale, had colored an angry red in a matter of hours. He was fairly sure that if he were aware enough to take in his surroundings, he’d find them slick with blood by now.

The agony provided so kindly by the dimeritium was nothing compared to what would come later, but for a time he remained in ignorant bliss. He stayed semi-conscious for what felt like hours after he was placed in his new cell. Without his reliable rectangle of sunlight, the passage of time quickly became a foreign concept. All he knew was darkness and bone-deep exhaustion, constantly threatening to pull him under. When a fresh set of men entered the room, he assumed that morning had arrived, if for no other reason than he had nothing better to guess by. 

They removed the shackles, conversing between themselves the whole time. But it was only temporary relief. When they stripped him of his shirt, hacking it to bits with dull knives and tossing the scraps carelessly to the floor, he was suddenly reminded of the bandages he’d never had the chance to remove. The bandages that Jaskier had wrapped so carefully, so tenderly around his torso. He closed his eyes and mentally kicked himself as the men laid eyes on them.

Within seconds, the white linen swathing his barely-healed wounds was gone, torn from him harshly and without consideration for his battered body. The sounds of tearing were hell on his sensitive ears, sharp and angry. He choked down a whimper, and then came the mocking.

“Aw, the poor witcher had someone patch him up? Does he miss that? Does he miss having someone who gives a fuck about him?” Each question was punctuated with a kick or a punch. Much to his eternal humiliation, he rolled into a ball and took it as best he could, hissing when he felt the newly healed skin across his back split open at the abuse. Hot blood trickled lazily down his flanks as they continued their assault.

And then, just as quickly as they’d sprung on his weakness, they became bored of it. He was manhandled into the center of the chamber, and they pulled the chains down from the ceiling and clamped them around his tender wrists. He hadn’t noticed the pulley system they were attached to when he’d been led in, but he was acutely aware of it as it hauled him up, dragging him just a bit further from the floor with each turn of the wheel. They only stopped once his toes were just barely brushing the stones.

The new position made his arms ache immediately and fiercely. He was rudely reminded of his earlier attempt to barrel through the door during his escape--his shoulder felt like it was ready to pop out of joint at any moment. Rather than zeroing in on the wreckage of his wrists or the burn of reopened wounds, he chose to focus on that, ignoring their discussion as they went about choosing the weapon of the hour.

Geralt was no stranger to torture. Hell, the very witchers that had raised him had subjected him to a plethora of increasingly creative and sadistic methods of creating pain, whether it was presented as discipline for acting rebelliously or to “teach” him how to handle the cruelties of the real world. He’d always doubted their justifications, and he would never consider himself thankful for their abuses, but at least he wasn’t caught off guard when it came.

The first blow was always the worst. That was something he’d learned early on in his time at Kaer Morhen. The sting was always a shock, no matter how well-prepared he thought he was. Even as he would hear the whistle of the whip through the air, he still knew he could never prepare for it. Tensing in anticipation only made it worse, so he’d learned to just stay still and hope for it to be over quickly. For every  _ snap,  _ there was a flinch. He was usually able to control his reflexes at first, but it always eventually became too much. After the tenth or eleventh strike, he could push it to the background, so that it was a simmering ache instead of something sharper and hotter. It still hurt, but he could focus on other things if he tried hard enough. Sometime after the twenty or thirty mark, he could usually slip into a semi-meditative state. Some would argue that what he called meditation was actually the brink of consciousness, but to Geralt, it was just semantics. Mediation, unconsciousness, sleep--whatever they chose to label it, it was all the same when he got down to it. Sometimes it hurt more than others, sure. But getting caught up in details only meant that he was still focusing too much on the fire of the whip across his back. They taught him to tuck it all away, somewhere deep and secret where it couldn’t reach him until he allowed it to. After all, he couldn’t be expected to fight monsters if he didn’t know how to handle a little pain.

The strain of being strung from the ceiling was a welcome distraction when the lashes started to fall. It had been decades since someone had taken a whip to his hide, and he’d forgotten just how much it could sting. At Kaer Morhen, he’d sometimes idly counted, but it was easy for him to lose count now when he couldn’t string together more than a single coherent thought. He just let himself drift. At some point, they stopped interrogating him for answers and the blows just fell continuously. He wasn’t sure if they were actually still searching for answers, or if they were just deriving some sick satisfaction at seeing him slowly lose his fight.

He put together a sort of mental schedule for himself. Morbid, really, but when was his life not? He guessed that he had a maximum of a week before it did him in. He could last no more than seven days at this rate, any longer and he knew he would start to fade. There was always the possibility that it would happen sooner, but he knew that his most optimistic outlook was a week. They provided him the minimum amount of water and they’d thrown a single stale, moldy loaf of bread at his feet in between sessions with the whip. When he glared at them, they had only laughed.

“What’s the matter, witcher? Can’t reach it? Here, we’ll help you,” And then they picked it apart and pelted him with dry crumbs.

He supposed the goal  _ was  _ to break him. A broken witcher would answer questions, or so they thought. If that meant more than one type of torture, they were happy to oblige. So on top of the physical and the pain, there was the deprivation of food and water. His head had gone fuzzy from the lack of hydration within hours in his new prison, a testament to how weak he’d already become. 

He distantly registered that the whip had stopped falling. He had enough presence of mind through the haze to wonder if that meant they were done or if they were just moving on to the next tool. But no, now that he was resurfacing from his meditation  _ (No Geralt, that’s wrong. Try “waking up,” you dolt. You’ve been unconscious,  _ Jaskier scolded), he could hear the men in front of him jeering. He raised his head with considerable effort to look at them. He didn’t remember this pair coming in, nor did he remember the previous pair leaving. 

It seemed there was a rotating pool of men who wanted to have their fun with him. Geralt couldn’t be sure if they were actively volunteering for the job or if there was some kind of lottery element to it. Some of them seemed a sight less eager than others, but none had yet to outright refuse the task. The pair standing in front of him now was more than happy to play the part assigned to them.

“Look at ‘im. Trembling like a babe.” Something hard jabbed him in the ribs and the black and blue bruises littering his torso ached in protest.

“Your little whore is dead, Butcher. Why are you still resisting?”

“He died running, you know. He left you behind. Even your bard abandoned you at the first chance. Must’ve been truly desperate, to get ‘imself killed just to escape the likes of you.”

_ No,  _ Jaskier growled. That was funny. Jaskier wasn’t usually the one who  _ growled,  _ that was more Geralt’s forte than the bard’s. 

_ Don’t listen to them, Geralt. I would never leave you behind. _

_ But you did.  _ He was quick to silence that little protesting voice. After all, he’d  _ wanted  _ Jaskier to leave him behind. Practically prayed for it. He would’ve throttled the bard if he’d been foolish enough to come for him.

A heavy fist landed on his face and he felt the ring on the man’s hand leave a gouge in his cheek. Blood trailed down his jaw and dripped onto the floor. He probed the matching cut on the inside of his cheek, split open from the impact with his teeth. The taste of copper coated his tongue as it bled.

“Can’t say that I blame the poor bastard.”

_ What? _

“You forced ‘im to write those songs, didn’t you? No sane man glorifies a  _ witcher’s  _ work.” Oh, right. They’d been reminding him that Jaskier had abandoned him. Geralt spat red at the man’s feet and lifted his chin up just enough to look down at the man in front of him.

“Oooh, defiance? It’s been a few hours since we’ve seen that. I’d say it’s time for another round with the knives, what do you think?” He elbowed his partner in the side playfully with a sickening grin. Geralt wanted to roll his eyes, but there was no sense in riling them up farther and causing himself more pain. He watched with trepidation as they took down the display on the wall; it was a beautifully crafted, sinister thing, carved out of oak wood, designed to intimidate as much with the gruesome imagery embedded in its surface as it did with pain. When the first blade connected with his skin, he sank deeper into himself and prayed it would be over quickly.

When he came to, the chamber was blessedly empty. He was still hanging, but they’d let out enough slack that he could stand now, though that was a loose approximation for what he was capable of. He licked his lips, grimacing at the cloying taste of dried blood, and spat onto the stones. It joined the multitude of dark stains there, blending in seamlessly.

He felt strangely lucid, given his circumstances. He supposed that it was the result of being relieved of two of the dimeritium shackles--his ankles had been left free. He hadn’t been out for too long, because he could still feel the fresh wounds across his lower back and shoulders bleeding sluggishly. The waistband of his trousers was completely soaked with his blood and sweat and had cooled unpleasantly to match the temperature of the cellar. He shivered fitfully.

He hadn’t been mentally present enough earlier to take full stock of his surroundings, but he was aware enough now to appreciate the horror of the room. It seemed the lord truly was a special kind of savage with very questionable pastimes, because it was clear he’d spent a good deal of coin to have this room built specifically for the purpose of tormenting prisoners. He wondered what kind of lord had such an urgent need to mercilessly persecute his own people, but then he supposed he’d already had plenty of first-hand experience with Campbell. He fit the bill exactly.

The chamber wasn’t all that large, for the intimidation factor it carried. It was probably a total of twenty feet wide and deep, with a fairly low ceiling. Despite the torches mounted on the wall, it was dark. He vaguely remembered noting the lack of windows when he’d been brought in. There was a fireplace set into the wall next to the doorway, with an appearance closer to a forge than a hearth. A large set of bellows attached to it all but confirmed that it had once been used to craft weapons, though he was loath to guess what it was used for now. The chimney was excessively wide, probably to ventilate the smoke better since there were no other openings to send excess fumes through. All of these details were fairly normal, though why the fireplace was in the cellar of all things was a bit of a mystery to Geralt. It was common knowledge that a forge was best placed outdoors to facilitate ventilation. Perhaps it served a double purpose of keeping Campbell’s cronies from freezing in the winter when they were sent down to do the dirty work.

The part that made his blood run cold was the numerous racks lining three walls of the room. The back wall was reserved for two cells to contain prisoners, but every inch of surface on the others had been fitted with brackets upon which a dizzying amount of instruments had been perched. An impressive collection of whips and knives was the most obvious, taking up the most space. The set that many of the guards had favored still lay neatly on the workbench next to the forge, gleaming maliciously in the torchlight. Upon closer inspection, he spotted what appeared to be a set of smithy’s tools, though it was obvious from the dark stains littering them that forging wasn’t all they had been used for. There were also several leather straps, a shelf of vials full of questionable substances, and...a sandal?

Hmm. Creative.

The lord had gone so far as to have a water pump installed in the corner, and two wooden buckets sat near it. The steady  _ drip, drip, drip  _ from the faucet sounded eerily familiar and he realized that this had been the source of the sound he’d heard for days. He licked his cracked lips, reminded unpleasantly of how long it had been since he’d had anything to drink. But the pump certainly hadn’t been placed there for his benefit. He figured any number of guesses as to its purpose would prove correct--a forge needed water to cool superheated metal, and it was probably used for drinking purposes as well, but he wasn’t naive enough to think that they were above using it for more insidious purposes.

A shuddering breath left his lungs. He needed to get out of his own head; it was spinning with the implications of each item he spotted. He absently hummed one of Jaskier’s less known songs in an attempt to distract himself from the gruesome images flooding his mind.

_ Geralt! How touching! You’ve been holding out on me. _

Geralt jumped violently at the suddenness of the voice. He hadn’t heard Jaskier or Vesemir’s voices since the last pair of guards had disappeared back down the hall.

“Jaskier.”

_ You do listen to my songs! I won’t be letting that one go for a while now, witcher.  _ Only Jaskier could make the word  _ witcher  _ sound like an endearment. It was a welcome change from the way Campbell’s men always spat it like it left a foul taste on their tongues.

“I always listen to your songs. Thought you knew that.” Geralt grunted, watching as the bard strolled across the room and picked up one of the knives from the display. It looked wrong in his hands.

_ These are rather nasty. Did they really use them on you?  _ A raw, painful laugh tore its way out of Geralt’s throat. He jerked his head weakly at his shoulders.

“See for yourself.” Jaskier’s eyes narrowed with concern and he stalked over quickly, running a warm hand over his injuries. He shivered at the touch, even as he realized in some deep part of himself that none of this was really happening.

_ Gods, Geralt.  _ He sounded like he was going to be sick. Geralt craned his neck to see that his companion had gone startlingly pale.

“Doesn’t hurt too bad,” He tried for a reassuring tone but the words came out flat and clearly untrue, weak as his voice was

_ Don’t lie to me Geralt.  _ He winced at the hurt in Jaskier’s voice even as the gentle touches across his shoulders spoke of his care.

Gods, Geralt was going crazy.

“You’re not real.”

_ Of course not, you great oaf. Do you think the real Jaskier would return to this hellscape?  _ He opened his arms in a grand gesture at their surroundings and Geralt couldn’t decide if he wanted to grimace or roll his eyes at the theatrics.

“Actually, yes. He would.” He had no doubt about that, foolish as the bard was.

_ Yes, I suppose you’re right. A bit hard to work around your self-deprecating thoughts when I’m in  _ your  _ head, though. Still, he ran for a reason. Wouldn’t do him much good to come back without a plan, if he’s even still alive. You don’t blame him. But you were lonely, so I thought I would stop by and check in.  _ His brain was truly something else. He hadn’t even realized he was lonely. He wasn’t sure why he’d manifested Jaskier as some sort of twisted visitor, and he didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse. The bard, despite being a product of his own mind, seemed oblivious to his thoughts and barrelled on unburdened.

_ Really, charming setup you’ve got here. The fireplace is a nice touch. And the decor! So rugged! What better way to make your guests feel welcome than to display an obscene number of ghastly weapons on the wall? Makes a guy feel right at home. _

_ “I  _ didn’t decorate the place, bard.” Geralt growled.

_ And the jewelry?  _ He looked pointedly at Geralt’s hands,  _ Excellent taste, Geralt. The purple really sets off your eyes quite nicely.  _ He reached up to touch the manacles with a distasteful expression.

_ “Don’t,”  _ He meant for it to come out as a firm command, but by the time the word crossed his lips, it had turned into a plea. Jaskier froze where he stood, inches from Geralt’s face.

_ Oh, dear. Don’t tell me they’ve already gotten to you?  _ He moved as if to caress Geralt’s cheek and then changed his mind, pacing back to the entrance.

_ I’ll be back when you need me.  _ And then he strolled into the darkness and faded away. If Geralt’s arms had been free he would’ve run a hand over his face. His bones ached and it was clear that Campbell was getting to him more than he’d previously thought. Hallucinations weren’t a common experience for him.

Campbell came down to gloat, sometime after that. By the time he deigned to bestow the witcher with his presence, Geralt had already gone several rounds with the whip and twice with the wicked set of knives they kept displayed on the wall. Based on the way his wounds were refusing to heal, Geralt thought that their blades were also laced with dimeritium. Or something else, perhaps. The guards hadn’t bothered to take him down and return him to his cell when they’d finished, so he was still strung up on the ceiling when the lord sauntered down the long hallway to the dark chamber. He was clothed in all of his usual finery, a triumphant and vaguely sinister grin dancing across his face. He lit up at the sight of Geralt, beaten and bloodied. The witcher shuddered involuntarily, feeling like an animal up for slaughter.

“Well, witcher? Are you ready to reconsider your refusal?” Campbell spoke with the same level of conversational interest as he had that first night at the dining table. Geralt kept his lips pressed tightly together as he watched the lord slowly turn the wheel on the wall. His feet lifted off the floor. A sinister light flickered in Campbell’s eyes.

He’d honestly forgotten that the supposed reason they were doing all of this was to get information out of him. He actually had to think about what they wanted from him--the neighboring nobles that had hired the assassin. But he knew that once he relented, they would just kill him immediately. And despite his increasing desire for the pain to end, he didn’t want to  _ die.  _

“I see. Choosing to remain stoic. I’m not surprised, based on how you behaved in the dining hall the other day. But I have to admit, I believed some of the fire would leave you once your bard was gone. No matter--I was rather looking forward to hearing you beg for mercy.” Geralt actually laughed at that--a low, throaty thing that didn’t carry even a hint of real humor. The slight movement hurt his smarting ribs.

“If you think you can make me beg then I’m sorry to say that you’re in for a world of disappointment.” He whispered hoarsely. 

He was rewarded with a vicious kick to his knee. He could almost hear the joint creak in protest as he swung, spinning in place as he struggled to regain his balance with some dignity still intact. There was just enough slack for him to rest the balls of his feet on the floor, but if he didn’t stretch he just dangled limply, all of the energy sapped out of him. When he finally stopped swaying, he gazed evenly at Campbell through the rust-colored strands of his own hair. 

“I’ll ask you only once more. Are you ready to share?” Geralt’s eyes narrowed and he remained silent. Campbell sighed dramatically and clapped his hands together.

“Good! I would have been a bit disappointed if this had turned out to be easy. I do enjoy a good challenge.” Geralt was getting whiplash from the rapid back and forth between falsely amicable and threatening. The lord rubbed his hands together in anticipation, as if he were about to tuck into a hearty meal instead of flay a man alive. Again, Geralt found himself picturing Jaskier’s disgust.

_ Where is the spice, my man? The variety? The originality? This is the most cliché performance I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness. _

Campbell selected the smallest blade from the set, sliding it carefully from the leather strap holding it in place, and held it up in the torchlight. For such a tiny thing, it made something primal in Geralt want to kick and shout and run away. He shoved that reaction away, trying not to dawdle on the fact that he hadn’t felt like this since before the Trials. 

The lord twirled the knife in his hand with a skill that Geralt hadn’t expected. He’d been trained. Of course. His blood turned to ice in his veins. The blade was wickedly sharp, throwing off harsh violet reflections onto the stone walls surrounding them. Its metal was dark, and Geralt couldn’t be bothered to focus enough to determine its color. He knew that it would hurt; he’d already experienced the cold touch of the metal twice.

“You really are quite an exquisite creature, Butcher. Fearsome, to be sure, but beautiful. I can appreciate that in spite of the fact that you are an animal.” Campbell circled him as he spoke. Clearly he was no stranger to psychological scare tactics; he’d picked up on Geralt’s unease when he’d been out of sight and was pushing it for all it was worth. He stayed standing behind him as he spoke.

“I can understand why commoners hold so much reverence, so much fear for you. Of you. How many monsters have this body killed? How many  _ humans,”  _ he was suddenly breathing in his ear, yanking his head backward, and Geralt flinched violently at the invasion of his space, “has this  _ monster  _ killed?”

Geralt stared resolutely at the ceiling, grinding his teeth. He’d spent his entire life hearing similar jibes; he was used to them. Sure, they still hurt, but at least it wasn’t new. His mask had slammed back into place, golden eyes taking on a flinty emotionlessness in the dim light. His shoulders whined insistently at the awkward position.

“Tell me, witcher. We’ve all heard the tale of the Butcher of Blaviken. That was you, no? What was it that made you snap? What possessed you to kill all of those people? Or  _ were  _ you possessed? Maybe that’s it. You’re always on edge, reining in your instincts, desperately roping in your animal side in the hopes that if you present as  _ human,  _ you’ll be spared for your crimes.”

Geralt sank one of his fangs into his lip to distract himself from Campbell’s words. It had been decades since that incident but it was still a sore topic. How was it that he’d honed his perception for nearly a century and  _ still  _ hadn’t managed to pick up on Campbell’s sadism within seconds of their first meeting? Sure, he’d had a bad feeling. But had he been able to predict  _ this,  _ he would’ve hightailed it out of town with Jaskier in tow.

“Well,  _ Butcher,”  _ and the word sounded absolutely vile on his lips, “I won’t be swayed by your act. I know about that beast that lies inside--witnessed it, even. And once I’m done with you, you’ll wish that you were a mindless animal.” He ghosted his fingertips over Geralt’s bare back, tracing the barely-healed scars and scabbed over gouges from earlier lashings. The lord’s hands were soft in the most unsettling way. This was a man who had never done hard labor a day in his life.

Campbell was  _ playing  _ with him. In the same way a gryphon would toy with its prey before going in for the kill. He was very tired of feeling hunted.

He suddenly realized that he found the lord’s smooth hands detestable. He knew why; the only touches he’d ever received through some level of mutual affection had come from hands hard and callused. The irony wasn’t lost on him--most people hated the scratchy feel of rough hands on their skin, preferred soft things. But Geralt, for all of his years, didn’t have much experience with kind touches, and even less experience with the contact of someone who actually sought it out.

His first memory of the novelty was Vesemir’s hands, toughened from years of teaching fencing, firmly guiding his movements with the blade or picking him up and dusting him off after a hard session of sparring. Then it was the hands of Eskel, and later Lambert, hardened from decades of handling the sword--affectionate slaps on the back (or if they were feeling particularly frisky, his ass), short, desperate embraces at the beginning of winter, a lingering grasp of the shoulder, a firm handshake. Even Renfri’s touch, while softer than the others’, had been adapted to handling weapons. And finally Jaskier, the foolish bard with all of his casual intimacy. His touch was the softest of all of them, but it still had that familiar rough edge, his fingertips heavily calloused from years of playing his lute. That was the one he enjoyed the most, the simplicity of keeping the company of a human who liked him enough to engage in casual touches. Jaskier had always been gentle, had never been timid.

Geralt would trade any of those options for what he was currently experiencing. The lord was deceptively tender, but the scrape of his nails was a barely-there warning that he held all of the power. A threat. He was choosing to be indulgent now but at any moment he could switch to something much crueler. The muscles in Geralt’s back quivered involuntarily.

And then Campbell made good on his unspoken threat and those long nails were digging into his back and leaving angry red marks on his flesh. Geralt hissed. There had been the warning, but it was still unpredictable and he’d had no way to prepare himself. The scars across his back itched and stung at the abuse.

“I am going to  _ break  _ you, Geralt of Rivia. By the time I’m done, you won’t even remember your own name.”

“Fuck off.”

A flash of steel and then there was a fresh cut across his ribs, hot blood spilling down his side eagerly to join the dried streams already there.

“You’ll learn not to talk back to me, beast.” All the playfulness was gone. For the first time, Geralt saw more than a glimpse of the man underneath Campbell’s carefully crafted facade. His eyes were emotionless and somehow filled with rage at the same time, cold depths revealing nothing but emptiness. He found himself reminded of Vesemir’s warnings before he’d embarked on the Path for the first time:

_ “Watch out for monsters, wolf. They don’t always come in forms you expect, and they aren’t always easily felled by silver blades.”  _ The advice had been perplexing to his younger self, but he’d learned quickly. Far too quickly.

It seemed that the gloves were off now. Campbell wasted no time in locating all of Geralt’s pain points; first, he would explore with his hands, and when Geralt would twitch or take in a sharp breath, they were suddenly replaced with the unforgiving bite of metal. He tried to control his reactions, but he was tired and his mask of indifference (Jaskier’s words, not his) was slipping.

He was only three or four nicks in--and really, that was what they were, he had no idea why they had such an effect on him--when Jaskier returned. By the time the fifth slice carved its path across his chest, just below his fifth rib, Jaskier had fully materialized right in front of him.

_ I told you I would be back when you needed me. I didn’t expect it to be so soon. _

“I didn’t either.” Geralt groaned before he could stop himself.

“Didn’t what?” Campbell snapped, briefly stopping the slow drag of the blade across his skin.

“Nothing.” Geralt spat. Jaskier crossed his arms and shook his head.

_ No use replying to a hallucination, Geralt. And that’s what I am.  _ And of course, Geralt knew that. He wasn’t an idiot. But he looked so  _ real,  _ and it was doing something horrible to his already fragile heart. How could he be expected to hold his tongue when Jaskier was  _ right there?  _ But he knew that no matter what, Jaskier would never return to his side, and he couldn’t begrudge the man for that. This version of Jaskier could never be real, but it was all he had left to cling to. Because the real one was gone.

He was yanked from his thoughts by the fire of the knife across the inside of his thigh. Not deep enough to sever the artery there, not yet -- the lord wanted to make his death as slow and painful as possible. But it was a very sensitive place. And Campbell had clearly been educated on what parts of the body were the most receptive to pain, because he’d wasted no time dallying on the tougher areas. Geralt rallied all of his self-control to contain the hiss fighting to escape his lips. Jaskier looked on with a mix of concern and anger.

Geralt dropped his head, allowing his hair to fall in a curtain over his eyes. He knew his face was pinched with discomfort, could feel the sweat prickling on his temples as he struggled to breathe through it. Campbell flashed him a wicked grin and with a flick of his wrist added a matching cut to his other leg. Geralt was positive at this point that the blades were laced with  _ something;  _ no normal weapon would have this kind of effect on him. Whether it was dimeritium or some sort of poison, he wasn’t sure. Only that it hurt like hell and the world was beginning to spin around him. 

He had the fleeting thought that Vesemir would be disappointed in his endurance. Campbell had hardly started and he was already sweating and close to vomiting.

_ Don’t be foolish, Geralt. As if you haven’t been tolerating frankly shit hospitality for the last week now. Vesemir may be a grumpy old coot with no respect for the arts, but I doubt his confidence in you hinges on how well you handle torture. We’ll be having none of that self-recriminating spiraling on my watch. _

_ I resent that, bard. I have plenty of appreciation for the arts--I was a damn fencing instructor. I just don’t have much appreciation for  _ you. 

And of course, would the night (Day? Evening? Time was irrelevant at this point, all he knew was that everything  _ hurt)  _ truly be complete without his mentor and father figure making an appearance as Jaskier’s trusty sidekick? He lifted his gaze and was met with the stern glare of his bard and the carefully impassive face of Vesemir. They both stood off in the corner, Jaskier with his hands on his hips in signature style and Vesemir with his arms crossed, quietly seething.

“Fuck. Go away,” He growled. He didn’t need an imaginary audience for his pain. Campbell ceased his ministrations and stood up fully, inches from Geralt’s face.

“Witcher, I’ve just begun. Why would I leave now? Are you cracking already?” Why did he sound almost concerned? He seized Geralt’s face in his empty hand to scrutinize his expression. Geralt bared his teeth, making sure his fangs were plainly visible in the low light.

“Yes, yes. I’m very intimidated. Nothing scarier than a witcher trussed up like a holiday feast.” Geralt really wished he would stop with the food metaphors. It just reminded him of his hunger even as their implications made his skin crawl. 

_ Handle my witcher like that again, you bastard-- _ Jaskier made to march up to Campbell, uncharacteristically furious, and Vesemir caught him by the arm.

_ Peace, bard. And just what did you intend to do to the crazed man with a knife? _

_ You truly expect me to just stand by and  _ watch  _ this? You think  _ he’s  _ the crazed man with a knife? Have you met me? _

Geralt sighed involuntarily, headache ticking up several notches at their bickering. His concussion had been the least of his worries for over a day now, but it was still enough of a discomfort to prove annoying.

Campbell released his grip and sauntered back to where he had the knives laid out in a neat row. He cleaned the blade of the one he’d been working with, producing a rag from somewhere and polishing it carefully before setting it back with the others. He was slow about it, methodical. It was just another part of the game he was playing, Geralt knew. He wanted to draw this out as long as possible. If he’d harbored any hope of rescue, the thought might’ve been encouraging. The longer Campbell lingered, the more time whoever might’ve come to save him had to plan a daring rescue. But he knew better than to pray for such a thing. Now the only meaning dallying had was that he would suffer all the more before inevitably succumbing to his captor.

Campbell began to speak as he perused his weapons.

“You know, Butcher, it’s quite interesting. The effect that dimeritium has on you.” Geralt was quickly discovering that there were few things he detested more than the way the lord spoke to him as if they were sharing conversation over a cup of tea.

“It’s common knowledge that the stuff works wonders for keeping mages and magic-born creatures under control. But I’ve never heard mention of the effect it has on witchers. A well-kept secret, to be sure.” He ghosted his hands over the knives, pausing ever so slightly over a particularly large on with a serrated edge. If Geralt hadn’t known any better he would’ve guessed it was a bread knife.

Geralt was tempted to refute the man. As far as he was aware, the only witcher dimeritium affected was himself, as a result of the additional trials he’d been subject to. He couldn’t speak for other schools, of course, but he figured it was the same for them. But then if that lulled the lord into a false sense of security, all the better. He wouldn’t have any of his kin subject to this if he could help it. He kept his mouth shut and allowed him to continue to monologue. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jaskier making gagging gestures and faces at the show of theatrics. Vesemir elbowed him in the side and shook his head in warning, but the bard only scampered away and continued his antics. Geralt was almost tempted to laugh. He felt giddy, disturbingly close to emotion.

“I had a hunch when we met that you are more than meets the eye. I’m glad I was right, otherwise it’s entirely possible that your daring escape attempt would have worked. But I know a thing or two about witchers--I decided to do some of my own research before choosing to hire one. Books are a wonderful source of knowledge, but it was really word-of-mouth that let me in on the weaknesses of your kind. I suppose I have your bard to thank for that. Without him, I never would have gotten to you.”

Jaskier paled to the point that he resembled a sheet. Vesemir caught him by the shoulders as he staggered, overwhelmed by guilt. Geralt shook his head earnestly, trying to convey that it wasn’t his fault.

_ Not real. Not real. Stop acknowledging them.  _ His head hurt.

Campbell settled on the knife he’d hesitated over earlier. Geralt eyed it with trepidation as the lord returned from the workbench.

_ Don’t show him your fear, wolf.  _

Geralt  _ knew  _ that, of course. But staying expressionless while staring down a giant knife was much easier in theory than practice. Luckily, he had several decades’ worth of experience on his side. He managed to wrestle his features into something like derision instead of the unease clawing at his insides. Campbell observed with a wry smile.

“Putting on a brave face, how charming. But I can see through your cracks, witcher. You’re starting to slip.”

Without warning, Campbell lashed out and slashed the knife across his side, violent and quick but not deep. Caught almost completely by surprise, a pained groan escaped Geralt before he could stifle it. He tensed, gripping the chains that held him up even as they stung his skin. His vision wavered dangerously, narrowing to a point, heart racing along just a little bit faster. The sharp tang of his own blood flooded his nostrils as it splashed to the floor below. It might’ve been a trick of the light, but it looked darker than it was supposed to be. 

_ “Fuck.” _

Jaskier had gone positively feral in the corner, scratching and clawing against Vesemir. The old witcher actually appeared to be putting some effort into restraining the bard. It was endearing, in a way, that he still wanted to defend him.

The serrated edge had torn his skin more than it had cut and blood flowed freely among the numerous other wounds littering his torso. Geralt grit his teeth and tipped his head back, trying to regain control of his faculties.

“Ah, excellent! We finally have a reaction!” The lord sounded almost giddy. Geralt snarled.

“Oh, do be civil, witcher. Would you like to know what I’ve coated these with? After all, you seem rather surprised at the effect they’re having on you. I wouldn’t have the witcher I’m hosting doubting himself.” He twirled the knife as he spoke.

_ “No.”  _ Geralt breathed out slowly through his nose. Campbell continued, heedless of his reply.

“It’s quite a cocktail, actually. The main ingredient is, of course, belladonna. A staple in any poison worth its salt. Even  _ your  _ constitution will have a hard time keeping up with that. And for a bit of variety--caladium and Angel’s Trumpet.”

Geralt’s head spun as the blood drained from his face. He knew his plants better than most healers; he’d studied alchemy relentlessly in his youth at Kaer Morhen. Knowledge of all things herbology had been drilled into him again and again by his instructors, and for good reason--even the smallest mistake in a potion could prove lethal. And the ingredients that Campbell was listing off so casually were near the top of the list of “plants with high toxicity.” His brain helpfully supplied an expansive host of symptoms: extreme light sensitivity, blurred vision, loss of balance, hallucinations, delirium, complete inability to distinguish fantasy from reality (Jaskier laughed at that one), amnesia, loss of balance, elevated heart rate, fever--the list went on and on. Belladonna-- _ deadly nightshade _ , most humans called it--alone in large enough quantities was enough to lay him low, and there was no telling what could happen with the poison being placed directly into his bloodstream. It was like one of his potions amped up to one-hundred, without all of the benefits.

Even now, he was beginning the approach to toxicity. No wonder he felt like shit.

_ See?  _ Jaskier said.  _ You’re not weak. Just dying. _

_ And  _ you’re  _ not helping, bard. Your encouragement is ill-timed and poorly delivered.  _ Vesemir scowled.

_ I don’t see  _ you  _ offering up any sage words of advice. _

_ That’s because unlike  _ you,  _ I’m capable of keeping my mouth shut for more than five minutes-- _

Geralt tuned their squabbling out as Campbell started to speak again, having allowed enough time for his dramatic pause.

“I commissioned the most practiced apothecary in Yarren for this lovely little concoction. The twat demanded a steep price for it, too, before I reminded him who’s in charge of the town.” Another swipe at his ribs, another swath of fire wrapping its tendrils around his chest. Geralt’s vision cleared just in time to see him gesture to a decanter of colorless liquid resting on the workbench. He made a mental note to avoid any apothecaries in this town. If he managed to survive, that was.

Several hours later saw Geralt looking and feeling more than a little worse for the wear. Dozens of shallow cuts stood out starkly against his pale skin, some bleeding and some not. Every once in a while, Campbell switched blades, “to keep things engaging.” Geralt had no interest in staying engaged. He’d long since stopped trying to stand; every time he attempted to hold himself up his knees buckled and his own weight yanked at his wrists. He could feel the telltale trickle of blood down his arms but no longer possessed the energy to lift his own head, so he just let it loll uselessly on his shoulders. His heart had started pounding with the effort of circulating contaminated blood through his body in the first hour; now his chest ached with every beat.

He was familiar enough with the sensation of toxicity to know that his face and most of his body had become webbed with dark veins. His cuts all burned fiercely as his mutations struggled to neutralize the constant influx of poison. He wondered if his eyes were back, or if that was something that resulted solely from his witcher potions. He didn’t know if he actually cared.

Jaskier and Vesemir had started slow dancing around the room to the rhythm of his pounding heart sometime in the second hour. He wasn’t sure if they were mocking him or trying to distract him. Or if they were even acknowledging him. Then Vesemir had walked up the wall, saluted Jaskier, and disappeared through the ceiling, leaving him alone with the bard and Campbell.

Distantly he realized that somehow the lord was still monologuing about something or the other, but the words floated around him without forming any real meaning. Jaskier had started sharpening his dagger in the corner with a dangerous expression on his face. The dull, burning pain of another knife, this time across a collarbone, pulled him slightly closer to lucidity. Then Campbell’s hand was grabbing his chin, lifting his head up to meet his eyes.

“My my, witcher. I do think I may have gone a bit farther than I had originally intended. You look horrible.” Geralt furrowed his brows. There were two Campbells in front of him.

“Fff…”

“Yes, yes, I know. ‘Fuck me.’ Tell me, Butcher, are you capable of formulating anything besides two-word sentences?”

_ That, Lord Pestilence, he is! I’ve been around many a time to witness him hold rather extensive conversations. I seem to recall you being present for one of them, perhaps even participating in it?  _ Jaskier stood up, tossing the stone he’d been using to sharpen his blade to the side. He circled Campbell, sizing him up. 

_ But then, it would be unfair of me to assume that your tiny pea brain is capable of remembering anything beyond your last meal.  _

Geralt’s eyes followed the bard as he moved. He wondered idly why Campbell had yet to lash out at him. Jaskier had been spouting off no small amount of creative insults throughout the evening  _ (was  _ it evening?) and the lord had yet to react to a single one.

Campbell was still talking. Apparently he’d asked a question, or desired some sort of reaction because his fingernails had started to dig painfully into his cheeks. Geralt groaned weakly and that seemed to satisfy him because he dropped his face after that.

His toes were tingling. He wondered if that was bad. If he strained his eyes, he could still make out Jaskier’s worn boots pacing around him.

“Y’need new b’ts.” Fuck. That hadn’t come out right.

“What was that, witcher?” The grip was just as uncomfortable in his knotted hair as it had been on his face. He found his head pulled up to meet Campbell’s gaze once more. The nearly-healed gash on his head smarted in protest. Jaskier stood behind the lord, looking somewhat exasperated.

_ Yes, well, my dear Geralt, that wouldn’t be a  _ problem  _ if you would just let me ride Roach on occasion. Walking dozens of miles every day isn’t exactly kind to shoes. _

“Not y’r horse.” He growled back, narrowing his eyes against the too-bright torchlight.

“You are uttering nonsense, Butcher.” Geralt couldn’t bring himself to care. Jaskier was drawing a finger across his neck and jerking his thumb at Campbell. He felt his lips quirk up in dark amusement. The lord’s own lips curled up in a twisted imitation and he released his hair in disgust, stalking over to the workbench and tossing the knife he’d been toying with down.

“Right, it seems like the knives are going to be too much for a bit. Time to move on. I still need answers, witcher.” He began cleaning the knives and carefully placing them back in their ornate display. Geralt found himself utterly uninterested in whatever the next tool was.

He summoned all of his strength and lifted his head just enough to make eye contact with his bard, standing across the room with his arms crossed. He was pretending not to be worried, but the pinched skin around his eyes betrayed his feelings. Geralt forced a sloppy grin onto his face in a sad attempt at reassurance.

“Music?” His voice was quiet and raspy, but it carried easily across the room. Jaskier’s gaze softened minutely and he allowed a small smile to sneak onto his face. A lute that Geralt was fairly certain hadn’t been on his back just minutes before was removed from the case, and he sat down on the workbench next to the knives to begin tuning it. Campbell didn’t seem to care about that and the witcher found himself wondering just what in the hell Jaskier had done to avoid the lord’s wrath.

“For you, my dear witcher? Anything.” 

Geralt felt his eyes roll and fall shut before he could stop himself. Through the haze of darkness, he could make out the soft plucking of strings as Jaskier slipped into his first song.

_ It’s what my heart just yearns to say, in ways that can’t be said…  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I do believe we’re reaching a turning point in this story, so buckle up and hold onto your seats. The action will be picking up again soon and the home stretch is in sight! If you’ve made it this far, I want to take the time to thank you for reading and being patient with me as I write. I appreciate every single one of you. <3  
> Any of the Amazing Devil fans in the audience may have recognized the title of this chapter and the first line of Jaskier’s song at the end as lyrics from Fair. I’ll just say it’s not a coincidence I chose that song ;)
> 
> Coming up next: Rosa fucks Jaskier’s shit up for wrecking her secret bunker?


	11. Petals in a Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier learns a thing or two about himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you to the lovely ShyThrush for beta’ing! This fic wouldn’t be as good as it is without her help!  
> As a treat for making it through all of the angst and hurt in the previous chapter (sorry, Geralt!), I made a special effort to keep this one as lighthearted and angst-free as possible. Also, uhhh...I’ve officially passed 100 pages??? Somehow???? This story has turned into a real beast!  
> Uhm?? I’m incredibly sorry about the delay for this chapter. My life has been turned completely upside down in the last two weeks--I found out that my housing has fallen through for the fall semester, so I’ve been frantically searching for an apartment, and I also just found out that I have pretty extreme general and social anxiety disorder! So things have been Fun and Exciting for me lately. I’m making an effort to keep writing though because it’s one of the few constants in my life, and I love you all.

_ “You  _ did all of this?” Rosa gestured at the destruction, something between incredulity and disbelief flickering across her wrinkled face.

“Well--that is. You see. Yes.” Jaskier nodded, ashamed, and rubbed the back of his neck. He’d been at a loss for words a few times too many for his comfort in the last few days.

“In two hours?” Rosa eyed him skeptically and crossed her arms, tilting her head to the side ever so slightly. 

“Well, technically, it was closer to two minutes.” The bard felt sweat prickle on his forehead. He cursed himself, feeling the grave he was digging for himself become deeper with the careless words. He tended to say stupid things when his nerves were high. Altair stood just behind the witch, towering over his mother and looking very much like he was trying not to laugh.

“With magic?” She was tapping her foot now.

“I think so?” He winced. Altair pressed a hand over his mouth, but while it hid his smile it did nothing to conceal the shaking of his shoulders. Without looking, Rosa reached back and smacked him distractedly on the arm.

Splintered fragments of a wooden crate were strewn across the dirt floor of her cellar, some of them even embedded between the rough-hewn stone making up the walls. She surveyed the damage again, a single gray eyebrow raised as her eyes roved across the room.

“Hmm.” He’d heard  _ that  _ before.

“I can--I’ll just. Perform tonight. Fetch the horses and be on my way. All of the coin I earn is yours, obviously. But I know when I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He waved his hand helplessly at their surroundings. The suggestion wasn’t ideal--far from it actually. He would have to sleep in the woods and return once he’d formulated a plan, but it didn’t look like he had much choice. 

Rosa rolled her eyes. The expression was at home on her weathered face, and he wondered how often it was directed at Altair. Her apron was soaked from the waist down; she’d been doing dishes almost the whole time Jaskier had been in the cellar. 

“No.”

Jaskier felt like he’d been smacked. Had he missed something? Geralt snorted behind him. He almost turned around to send a withering glare back at the illusion.

“No?” Gods, of  _ course,  _ his voice had chosen that moment to crack.

“No. Clearly, you’ve not been properly trained. You will wreak havoc everywhere you go. I will help you. This mess,” she waved a hand at it flippantly, “no worries. Easy to clean.  _ Your  _ mess,  _ that  _ should cause worries. Not so easy to pick up.”And with that, she spun on her heel and disappeared through the cellar door, headscarf fluttering. Jaskier wondered if  _ his mess  _ was in reference to potential destruction or his own remains being scraped off of walls. Altair remained where he’d been standing, trying not to dissolve into a puddle of laughter.

“Did you--no, of course not--ha _ HA _ ,” He doubled over and braced his hands on his knees, wheezing, “your FACE--”

Jaskier stayed still, leaning on one of his crutches and flicking his gaze between the still swinging door and Altair, who was struggling not to crumple onto the floor. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to be irritated or not.

“Clearly there’s some message I didn’t receive. What about this is funny?” He asked warily. He couldn’t muster the energy to be angry.

_ “Oh,  _ it’s just, it never gets old to watch Mum scare the  _ shit  _ out of people--” He tumbled into another fit of laughter and wiped a tear from his eye. The door slammed open behind him and Jaskier nearly jumped clear into the ceiling. 

_ “Come.  _ Stop dallying. I have paying customers. And  _ you,”  _ there was that pointing finger again, “need an ale.” Jaskier laid a hand on his chest and raised his eyebrows in question, as if there were some other person standing behind him that she might be indicating. Geralt didn’t count, she couldn’t see him.

_ Are you sure about that?  _ His hallucination teased. Jaskier did his best to ignore it.

“Me?”

“Yes, silly bard. You. I just brought out a fresh barrel. You will drink.”

“Well, I suppose it would be rude of me to refuse,” He smiled brilliantly.

“Yes. It would be. Now  _ come.”  _ This time, she held the door open until they followed. Jaskier stooped under the doorframe, stifling his relieved sigh.

The hall beyond the door was less of a proper hall and more of a tunnel carved out of hard-packed earth. The entire structure was dirt, and several sconces had been set into the wall for candles to sit in. None of them were lit (and Jaskier questioned the wisdom behind having smoke-producing candles in an enclosed space, but Rosa more than likely had some secrets up her sleeves), but he could still see as clearly as if it were merely twilight and not pitch black. Rosa shuffled along, unperturbed by the darkness and clearly familiar with the route, while Altair hung back a bit, running his hand along the side to keep his balance. The ceiling of the tunnel was low, and Jaskier could feel his hair just barely brushing against its surface.

They were walking for some time before the floor began sloping slightly upwards, and then there was a set of rickety wooden stairs emerging from the gloom in front of them. Jaskier eyed them with some doubt, but Rosa ascended them without a second thought. He stopped at the base, trying to develop some strategy to traverse them that didn’t end in his unfortunate demise. The old woman’s head appeared at the top and she called down to him through the trapdoor. 

“What keeps you?”

“Well, I’m not so sure these are going to hold my weight, Rosa.” He shrugged helplessly, indicating his sturdy frame. 

“They will hold you, bard. Not to worry.” Jaskier still harbored his doubts, but it wouldn’t do to remain staring at the surface for the next eternity. He sighed heavily and transferred his crutches to one hand, wincing when the ancient wood creaked under his weight. He paused and looked back up to see Rosa looking annoyed.

“Do you doubt my word, bard?”

The thing was, he didn’t. But it was hard to ignore the protests the stairs made when he put his weight on them. Geralt rolled his eyes at him from just beyond the light. 

_ So it isn’t witchers or monsters that finally manage to put fear into your soul, but a simple staircase? I’m a bit disappointed, Jaskier.  _

He almost responded with a scathing comment, but he’d already pushed his luck destroying Rosa’s property. He didn’t want hallucinations to be the final straw. Swallowing hard and purposefully ignoring Geralt’s mocking encouragements, he hobbled up the stairs as quickly as he could, bracing himself on the railing of questionable integrity. Altair followed closely behind, hands out and ready to catch him should he stumble. 

As soon as Jaskier surfaced, Rosa took one of his hands and pulled him the rest of the way out of the ground. He clambered clumsily onto the dirt, tossing his crutches out of the way as he collapsed dramatically. The scent of horse and hay hit him suddenly, and he found himself back in the stables he’d encountered the previous night. A familiar whinny drew his attention, and he lit up at the sight of his witcher’s horse.

“Roach!” He scrambled to his feet and hustled over to her stall as Rosa pulled Altair out of the hidden tunnel. He ran his hand over her neck, humming in appreciation of the obvious care she’d been given.

“Good ‘ol Roachie, my darling girl, how are you? Altair’s been taking excellent care of you, I see. That’s good. Surely Geralt would skin the poor boy otherwise. I’m sure you miss him. I miss him too. Don’t worry though, girl,” he leaned in conspiratorially and pressed his forehead against hers, “I’m working on bringing him back to us. Rest easy. He’ll be ok.” He rubbed his hand up and down her neck as he spoke. She butted him in the chest and nibbled at his mostly ruined doublet with interest.

“She’s a beautiful horse. Well taken care of, to be sure.” Altair clapped a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of his reverie.

“Your other horse...the one you ‘borrowed.’ She have a name?”

“Eh. Probably. But I didn’t think to ask, so I suppose she’ll get a new one eventually.” He’d been a bit too preoccupied with other things to worry about asking the stable girl what they called the dapple gray mare. He doubted anything Campbell had bestowed upon her would have been worthy of the magnificent horse anyways.

“If inspiration strikes, do tell me. Much easier to care for a horse when you know her name.” Altair rubbed the as-yet-unnamed mare with a small smile.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Boys! Stop dawdling. Not much time before the dinner crowd truly arrives.” Rosa was standing at the exit and watching them with some impatience. Jaskier huffed without ire and gave Roach a final pat before following the innkeeper.

The streets looked different when they were still cast in the fading light of the day. The sun was quite low in the sky, throwing brilliant orange light onto the buildings, the crowds just beginning to emerge from their hideaways for the evening. Last Jaskier had been outdoors, he’d been running for his life. Every shadow that darkened a doorway had seemed threatening. But now that he was in a more stable state of mind, he could see that the town was full of life in spite of Campbell’s iron fist. He spotted a little shop a ways down the street, situated on the corner, from which the fragrant smell of baked goods wafted. A small child dashed in front of him carrying a loaf of bread, causing Jaskier to stumble slightly, and Altair caught him just as he nearly fell. Angry yelling boomed down the street, and a tall, burly man thundered past him. He could only assume that he was the Erik that Rosa had mentioned when he’d awoken. Folk bustled around him--the street was surprisingly busy. He received a few questioning glares, and some seemed to identify him, but if anyone recognized him as the flaming man, they did not confront him. 

He was gaining a decent understanding that the people of Yarren all hated Campbell with a passion nearly matching his own. And despite the activity of the street, there were signs of his sustained abuse of power. Filth littered the alleys between buildings, emaciated stray hounds digging through the refuse in search of food. Children wore clothes far too big and worn to be their own. The adults carried around a haunted look, with no attempt to keep it hidden. Most buildings were run down and badly in need of repairs, crumbling at the foundations or sliding sideways into the saturated ground. The signs of wear and tear were notably absent from The Silver Oak inn, but nobody seemed to resent Rosa for it. In fact, as they crossed to the front door, she was greeted amicably by several passers-by. Jaskier wondered just how she fit into the ecosystem that seemed to exist here, but he reasoned that it wasn’t really his place to pry.

And he had to give credit where credit was due; even though the folk here were clearly no strangers to poverty, practically entrenched in it, it didn’t seem to affect their day-to-day lives all that badly. There was still plenty of cheer to be found; this wasn’t a desolate place and they were making do with what they had. And they were obviously willing to put up some fight against Campbell’s rule. That he hadn’t been given away yet, even with the impressive bounty on his head, was evidence enough. 

Judging by the off-color music drifting out into the street several buildings past Rosa’s inn, her tavern wasn’t the only one receiving business. It would be his job to make sure that she had the most customers tonight, though, and he was eager to repay his debt. Even better if it involved a little friendly competition.

Rosa threw the wooden door open and ushered them inside, clicking her tongue when Jaskier’s crutches got caught and he tripped upon the threshold. He very nearly faceplanted, but she caught him just in time, her grip around his arm suddenly reminding him of her earlier show of tenacity.

“Gods, how are you so  _ strong?”  _ He exclaimed as he sat down at the bar. She flashed him a mischievous smile and put a finger over her lips, using her eyes to indicate the greatly increased number of guests.

“Later, bard. All in good time.” Jaskier pressed his lips together and sighed as he accepted the drink she offered. The tavern was bustling with energy, and she took several orders for food before bustling back into the kitchen to prepare meals.

Jaskier was grateful that the apparition of Geralt had remained behind in the darkness of the tunnel. He was uncomfortably aware of just how much he was missing his companion, so much so that he longed for the hallucination. He knew it was foolish. It would only serve to distract him, and he needed to be at his best tonight. His hosts deserved nothing less.

As Rosa disappeared, Altair skidded around the counter and nabbed a tankard in one fluid motion. Jaskier watched with some amusement as he filled it from one of the taps nearly to the top, winking as he did so. Jaskier raised an eyebrow and jerked his head at the kitchen.

“She lets you drink?” He raised his voice slightly to be heard over the din of the crowd. Altair shrugged and set his tankard down before vaulting over the bar and flopping into the stool next to Jaskier. The boy’s grip on the bartop tightened when his seat tilted sideways from his acrobatics. Jaskier’s other eyebrow raised to match the first near his hairline.

“Impressive.”

“Altair! No drinks!” Rosa called from the kitchen, sticking her head out from behind the door frame. Altair ducked to avoid the flying spoon aimed at him and grinned, ignoring the patrons turning their direction to spectate. Rosa vanished once more and the sound of chopping vegetables could just barely be heard over the conversation of guests.

“How’s the leg holding up?” The stable boy asked easily, taking a long pull from his forbidden drink. Jaskier shook his head with a smile and followed suit before replying. 

“Actually, not too bad, all things considered. I don’t get injured often but I’m inclined to conclude it’s healing a sight faster than normal injuries do.”

“That’ll be Mum’s handiwork. She’s patched me up many a time. Says I’ve taken too many kicks to the head and that’s why I’m always gettin’ hurt. But that’s all in the business of caring for horses.” He chuckled.

“I do hope Roach hasn’t given you too much trouble. She can be a bit finicky.” Jaskier remembered fondly how long it had taken the stubborn mare to warm up to him. He had more than a few scars to prove his worthiness.

“Eh, a bite here and there,” he held up his hand, a large semicircle of purple bruises across the back, in demonstration, “but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” He flashed Jaskier that impish grin again before draining over half of his tankard.

“Are you sure you should be drinking that so fast?” The boy was well-built but incredibly skinny, all disproportionate limbs with very little body fat to absorb the blow of the alcohol. He winced in sympathy, knowing the impending hit-by-a-horse sensation that came with imbibing too quickly. 

“I’ll be okay. Certainly not my first ale.”

“Alright then, do what you please. I’m not here to boss you around. Your mother’s got that well under control already.” Jaskier raised his mug in salute and drained a good portion of his ale as well.

“Are you feeling better than earlier?” It was clear Altair was not referring to his physical injuries. Jaskier wasn’t sure what had changed between the shy interaction they’d first had and now, but the boy was a great deal chattier. He supposed his mental breakdown in the cellar had contributed somewhat to the newfound comfort the stablehand engaged him with. After all, once you’ve seen a man at his worst, it’s much harder to be afraid of him.

“Much. Everything sort of crashed into me all at once, down there. No windows. I don’t handle confinement very well. You put the two together, and...well. You saw it.” The young man seemed to understand that there was a great deal of unpleasant history behind his words and didn’t push for further details. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, nursing their respective drinks. Then, Rosa bustled out of the kitchen, carrying a rather impressive amount of plates in her arms. As she danced around the room, dropping off meals at different tables, she raised her voice to shout at her son from the opposite end.

“Altair! I told you! No drinks!” With a well-practiced flick of the wrist, the tankard slid to the end of the bar, far out of the reach of Altair’s empty hands. If any of the patrons were surprised by the magic, they didn’t show it.

“Mum! I was nearly finished!” Altair whined.

“You can finish this, instead. No matter how many times I tell you, do you listen? No! This is why your brain is rotten. You are lucky I don’t make you scrub the floor.” She scolded, tutting as she set down three more plates for them. 

They were piled high with a number of delicious options--Jaskier guessed that she’d already begun preparing the food when she’d stopped to fetch him. He could picture more pots bubbling on the stove in the back.

“Take your pick. I will return in a moment. We eat, then you sing.” She was already on her way back to the kitchen as she spoke, leaving behind enough food to feed a small army. Jaskier stared, wondering where to start. Even though he’d eaten in the cellar, it felt like a lifetime ago and he was already hungry again.

Altair didn’t hesitate to snatch one of the plates and dig into the chicken breast. Jaskier only paused for a second more before attacking the veritable feast in front of him; it wasn’t until he’d smelled the food that he realized he was still ravished.

Rosa returned from the kitchen just as he was finishing up his own chicken. She pulled a stool from under the bar on her side and sat down across from Altair and Jaskier, smacking her son’s hand away when he reached for her drink.

“Altair,” she warned. He pouted but pulled back. Jaskier smirked behind his ale.

“Bard. Are you aware of what you possess?” Jaskier startled, mouth full of stew.

“Fth lufth of mfth bafth?” Rosa raised an unimpressed eyebrow as Altair choked on his food. Jaskier absentmindedly patted him on the back as he spluttered, alternating between coughing and laughing.

“Try again.  _ After  _ you’ve finished chewing.” She gestured with her fork. Jaskier swallowed and spoke again.

“My good lady, I don’t know what you mean. I’m aware of my worldly possessions, certainly. The lute on my back, my witcher’s horse, a  _ stolen,  _ unnamed horse, and one very ruined doublet. Oh, and a useless leg, at the moment.” Rosa looked like she was ready to take back her offer of room and board and give up entirely.

_ “No,  _ bard. Inside of you. Untapped Chaos. The likes of which I have never seen.” Jaskier sighed. He had been hoping this conversation could wait until he was finished performing for the night, preferably after a good deal more ale was in his stomach.

“Yes, well. There have been a few recent incidents to suggest it.” He muttered, taking another drink before continuing his meal.

“I am not sure you understand what I mean. There is magic in your very  _ blood,  _ young bard.” And sure, he’d suspected that. But that Rosa, a woman intimately familiar with magic, had said it? He wasn’t sure what to do with that.

_ “In my blood?”  _ He hissed, spewing bits of carrot back into his bowl. Rosa didn’t comment, though she eyed them with distaste. She nodded.

Jaskier didn’t know anything about magic, or Chaos. He’d come across his fair share of magic users, knew of mages. His own father’s court had a mage, though he was little more than a servant and his magic was weak. He’d even slept with a few. He’d witnessed Geralt make use of his signs dozens of times, but that was about as far as his knowledge stretched.

“Is that a thing? For humans? In their blood--is that, is magic in human blood a  _ thing?”  _

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning, bard.” She replied, putting her silverware down with furrowed brows.

“Mum, he means is it normal. For humans.” Altair interrupted, voice as casual as ever. Jaskier nodded in agreement.

“No. It is not normal. Not  _ impossible,  _ but certainly rare.” She gathered their dishes and took them to the kitchen, leaving Jaskier gaping in stunned silence.

“That’s it?  _ Rare,  _ Rosa??” He leaped from his stool, briefly forgetting about his leg, and toppled into Altair in his rush to chase after the cryptic witch. Altair caught him clumsily, fumbling with his grip and nearly spilling them both onto the floor. He eventually got his hands under Jaskier’s arms and righted him, looking flustered. Jaskier had the decency to feel foolish.

“My apologies. I’m in a bit of a shock.”

“Not to worry, mister Jaskier. It’s understandable. Here, your crutches,” He pushed them into Jaskier’s hands with an amused smile and stood up.

“I’ll leave you and Mum to it. I’ve got horses to care for.” He dusted himself off and pranced out the door, whistling. Jaskier envied his carelessness. He felt decades older than the boy, even though he could only be a few years his elder at most. He felt like the weight of the world had just been placed on his back, and he didn’t even know what Rosa had  _ meant.  _ He stumbled into the kitchen behind her, spluttering but careful to stay out of her way. 

“By the gods and their collective shapely  _ asses,  _ Rosa, you can’t just drop a bomb like that on someone and  _ walk away!”  _ He exclaimed breathlessly. The woman smirked at him from her perch on the footstool near the stove. She stirred the stew easily, unperturbed by his behavior.

“I told you what I know. You? Your blood? Perhaps not entirely human.” And she turned back to her task as if she hadn’t just flipped his entire world on its head. The floor dropped out from under Jaskier.

___

He opened his eyes. When had he closed them, exactly?

Rosa was hovering in the dark corners of his vision, a funny combination of concern and outright amusement warring for control over her expression. He groaned.

“Are you awake now?” He was on the kitchen floor, one of his crutches digging into his back hard enough to leave bruises. He certainly  _ felt  _ awake, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to be. He nodded sluggishly, testing to make sure all of his limbs were in working order.

“Good. I did not mean to shock you. I am sorry. It is easy to forget how fragile you young people are.” She actually did appear quite apologetic, in spite of the humor wrinkling her crow’s feet. She placed a firm hand between his shoulder blades and levered him into a sitting position. He was a little bit woozy, but otherwise, he felt fine.

“You fainted.” Jaskier squawked indignantly at that, but she hushed him and continued.

“Got right pale. Next thing I know, you are on the floor, looking like death. I thought I had killed you.” Jaskier was surprised to find that her story sounded vaguely familiar, up to the point that he’d passed out. 

“You give a man the scare of his life and that tends to happen, my good innkeeper.” He patted her arm kindly and began to get up. She held out her hand, and while he might have doubted her  _ before _ he’d seen her lift an entire barrel of ale, he trusted her strength now. He took her offer and she pulled him to his feet easily. His pride was a little damaged, but he was thankfully in one piece. Rosa returned to her task of watching the stew simmer. He fidgeted for a few minutes before breaking the silence.

“Can you find out anything else?” He managed not to sound  _ too  _ desperate. 

“Not yet. Perhaps not ever. You are  _ partially  _ human, yes. That much is simple to tell. But it’s possible that you are not entirely of human descent. Mixed breeding, somewhere down the line. Most likely.” Everything clicked into place after that. Jaskier had always known his father had gotten around in his youth--he was one of dozens of siblings, both legitimate and illegitimate. His father, wealthy as he was, provided for all of his children, so he’d grown up in a large family. He’d never given much thought beyond vague curiosity to his matronage. He himself didn’t even know if he was a bastard child. He wondered how many of his other siblings had non-human mothers.

“Could you find out? What my other half is? With magic, or something?” He tried not to sound like he was pleading, but it was obvious.

“I can try. But not now. After dinner.” She looked sympathetic, but it was clear that he would not get anywhere in an argument with her. She had a business to run, after all. And he’d seen that stubborn look in her eyes on Geralt’s face many times, more than enough to know that it wasn’t worth the effort.

Well. If a good performance would convince the woman to find his parentage, then tonight would be the best he’d ever played. He already owed her a great debt, and he was only going to ask her for more. 

As if on cue, raucous laughter erupted from the dining room. Rosa patted him on the back and waved him out of the kitchen.

Half-human. He took a deep breath and centered himself, pushing that problem away to be dealt with later. For now, he had a stellar performance to give. Twisting his lute case so that the instrument sat against his chest, he breathed in the comforting smell of the leather and let it calm him before striding forward to face the music.

Heh. Face the music. 

___

Hours later, he was sweaty and his leg was throbbing, but he was in high spirits. Several times, his gaze had drifted to the corner where he knew he would’ve found Geralt, had the witcher been with him. But while he missed his friend, he knew that he was doing everything in his power to get him back, and he let that fact comfort him. 

While he hadn’t been foolish enough to try to stand, he’d caught himself several times tapping his foot along to the beat, and he was regretting it now. 

“Well, dear folk, I’m afraid that’s all for tonight! I appreciate your enthusiastic participation!” And enthusiastic, they had been. He smirked as his pockets jingled happily in time with his lute case. The few stragglers that remained at such a late hour were far too drunk to realize that he’d stopped playing and had long ago ceased paying attention to him. True to his earlier promises, he’d steered well clear of songs that might get him identified, nameless though he was in Yarren. Toss a Coin had been a hit and was sweeping the Continent, but he’d hardly traveled enough for his face to be recognizable, especially without his white-haired wolf at his side. It was easy enough to remain undetected, though he hadn’t been blind to a few surprised glances flashed his way when he was recognized from his recent flight through town.

He staggered over to the bartop, panting with the exertion and unbalanced from the weight of the coin in his case but happy nonetheless. He’d earned a hefty sum, far more than he was used to acquiring. He was well on his way to paying off his debt to Rosa. 

He flopped into his seat in an imitation of Altair’s earlier actions and propped his elbows on the worn wood. Rosa chuckled and dropped another tankard of ale in front of him.

“Well, my dear lady. I’ve done quite well tonight, if I do say so myself. I owe it all to you, of course,” he grinned and took a long pull from his tankard. He’d tried to refrain from his usual amount of heavy drinking during his performance, not wanting to be outright drunk when he spoke to the innkeeper. And while he was certainly capable of watching his own back, he felt far less safe without his grumpy witcher lurking in the corner. Despite his efforts, he was quite a bit tipsy from the flowing fountain of ale that Rosa had happily supplied throughout the night, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the blood loss or if it was her uncommonly fantastic brew.

“You are a stubborn boy, Jaskier. I only allow you to pay because I know it will weigh on your conscience if you do not. But you hold no debt to me. We care for our own.” That statement sent Jaskier reeling.

“Wait, so you mean to tell me you  _ knew?  _ About the magic? Is that why you helped me?” Rosa laughed lightly.

“Bard, you were  _ emanating  _ magic. All but shouting it to the streets. Of course I knew.” That sent Jaskier reeling slightly, but he supposed it made sense. She went about wiping down the tables as he processed her words, shooing the last few couples out of the tavern along her way. Some pairs staggered out into the night while others ascended the stairs clumsily to their rooms, kissing messily all the way. For some reason, the sight made Jaskier think of his witcher. 

Pushing off the pang of loneliness that threatened to consume him, he turned to Rosa, who was pushing chairs back into place around their respective tables. 

“Do you have any ideas? Suspicions, I mean, of what I might be?” He asked, swallowing another mouthful of ale. He was suddenly wishing he were much more drunk, unsure if he was equipped to handle her answer sober as he was. Rosa paused briefly, considering, and spoke without looking up from her work.

“Of course I have suspicions. They cannot be confirmed. Not without strong magic.”

“Magic you possess, I hope?” He tried not to sound too excited, but he was fidgeting nervously with the hand of his tankard and Rosa was quite observant.

“Do not get worked up, bard. Maybe. I might be able to confirm.” 

That wasn’t a very helpful answer, and he felt his chest constrict at the thought of continuing without knowing what he was. Rosa sighed heavily and shuffled to the door, sliding the bolt into place. Jaskier raised his eyebrows; how could she be sure that all of her guests were in for the night? She caught his eye and answered him before he could voice his doubts.

“No worries. I have my ways.” Choosing not to dwell over that, he hid his face by finishing off the tankard of strong ale. He gazed balefully at the bottom, wondering how he’d gone through the drink so quickly. Rosa came around the bar and took it from him, filling it from the tap before getting one for herself. She returned to a table, now clean, and sat down with the two drinks, gesturing for him to do the same. He stumbled over (crutches are a great deal more difficult to use when the world is just starting to tilt and whirl) and collapsed into the chair across from her.

“Bard. One thing you must understand before we begin. Magic is part of you, surely as the grass grows and the sun rises. But it does not  _ define  _ you.” She poked him in the shoulder and he found the touch strangely warming.

“You are a bard. You sing. You make people smile. You bring joy.  _ That  _ is who you are. I have seen it, tonight. The secrets in your blood? They change none of that. You are still  _ you.  _ I will allow no doubting under my roof. That is not what you are here for.”

She sounded so  _ sure  _ that Jaskier couldn’t find it in himself to argue. The old witch was right, after all. He was still Jaskier, the famous traveling bard and stubborn best friend to one grumpy, reluctantly affectionate, and fiercely protective witcher. He took a shaky breath and nodded.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” She took another swig of her drink before setting it down on the table and holding her hands out. They were palm up in indication that he should take her gnarled and weathered ones in his own, travel-worn but much younger.

“With your permission, I will look into your thoughts. Your memories. Perhaps there is something that will provide us an answer.”

“And how exactly will this help?”

“Hopefully, you will see. Humans are funny creatures. We have a nasty habit of locking away bits of the past that can hurt us. I must warn you: this will not be pleasant.” Faint stirrings of his childhood in Lettenhove shifted uncomfortably, and he became aware that Rosa would know everything about him in a manner of minutes. And yet, for some reason, he found himself surprisingly comfortable with allowing her access to his inner workings. He had very little knowledge of the woman herself, and she was full of surprises. But he also had more than enough reason to trust her. He doubted he would have survived this long if she harbored any real ill intent towards him.

“Alright. I’ve been through hell already, what’s a bit more?” He spoke warily, feeling the warmth of her palms against his own.

“Just...promise me one thing. Don’t let my past change how you see me. It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.”

“Most good stories rarely are.” She squeezed him comfortingly. He squeezed back, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders. He sat up a little straighter and mustered a confident grin.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

“Look into my eyes.” He did as he was told. She stared back, unflinching, and he found himself overcome with the feeling that every part of his being had been laid bare for her observance. He felt naked. He was a man who held no qualms about showing off his body, fully confident in his skin, but this was nakedness of a different kind. Not superficial, no--this felt much more intimate, like he was being stripped to the bone, to his very soul. The whole interaction probably took no more than a few minutes, but to him, it felt like a lifetime. While he couldn’t detect her presence in his mind, he had the distinct sense that she was sifting through every fiber of his being in the way one might peruse an interesting book. Every so often the feeling became more intense, and long-buried memories would dart before his eyes unbidden. Flashes of magic from his escape, forgotten faces. He was beginning to feel faint and overwhelmed. Her hands were hot against his own, the power coursing between them tangible and terrifying. 

It was unsettling, to say the least. When she finally broke contact, Jaskier felt like he’d surfaced from a too-deep dive just in time. He gasped and doubled over to rest his head on the table, feeling gutted.

“You handled that better than most, bard.” Her voice was muffled through the sleeves of his doublet--he’d wrapped his arms around his head to try to block out the sudden return of his senses, sympathizing with Geralt’s comedowns from his potions. He breathed heavily. The air bounced off the table, puffing back into his face. It smelled of ale. The wood was cool against his skin and he allowed it to ground him as he pulled himself back together. Rosa allowed him several minutes to regain his senses and some of his dignity before she spoke again.

“You are a mystery. I had hoped that I would be able to tell you something without any further investigation. But it was as I feared--your memories reveal nothing telling.”

_ “That’s  _ rather unfortunate.” He murmured shakily, drinking some more. Rosa nodded in sage agreement with the understatement. She looked as if she were sizing him up for a moment, hesitant to speak, and then seemed to come to some sort of internal decision. 

“There are...other methods. Blood magic. Ancient. Not quite legal. Not strictly  _ illegal.  _ Not very dangerous, but seen as unsavory by some folk.” She eyed him shrewdly, waiting for his reaction. Jaskier, for his part, remained unaffected. There was very little that disturbed him after two years on the Path with a monster hunter.

“My lady. I’ve laid my very  _ soul  _ out for you to read. Any pretense of distrust I may have put up is long gone at this point. And I’ll point out that I travel with a  _ witcher.  _ He’s seen as unsavory by many, many people, but I happen to believe he’s quite delightful company. A bit gruff perhaps. I  _ welcome  _ what others might think of as distasteful or unpleasant. I happen to thrive on it. Makes great songs. And what is this but another story to tell?” 

She had obviously anticipated his response, not even batting an eye.

“Finish your ale, young man. Then we go to my back room.”

“Do I get more when I’m done with this?” He asked hopefully, chugging the second half of his drink and fully feeling its effects. Rosa raised an eyebrow.

“Can you handle it?”

“I’ll have you know that I am  _ quite  _ capable of handling my drink. After all, I can keep up with a witcher just fine.” While that wasn’t strictly  _ true-- _ Geralt hardly drank more than enough to quench his thirst, and Jaskier had the suspicion that if he tried to match the man drink for drink, he would hardly remember the following  _ week-- _ the point got across just fine. Rosa nodded her assent.

“Oh, excellent! You do brew quite a fine batch. Almost too good to be true.” He tipped his now empty tankard in her direction in a toast. She rolled her eyes affectionately, picking up on his hint. 

“Though you may not believe it, there is no magic involved in my method. Too bitter, makes the ale flat. Not good for business.” She stood up, chair scraping across the floor. Jaskier wondered briefly how much time had passed since they’d sat down, having just realized that his leg had developed pins and needles.

Rosa refilled their drinks while he went about gathering his crutches and his wits. She returned to the table in a flash, and after a skeptical once-over, decided that she would carry his drink while they walked. Jaskier found himself agreeing with her assessment; walking was hard enough, even without the crutches and completely sober. Factor in those added difficulties and he had no doubt that there would be a tragic amount of wasted drink on her floor in a matter of seconds, should she trust him to carry his own drink.

She led him down the hallway to his room. But when he thought she would turn and open the door to his quarters, she continued walking until she reached the small bookcase at the end of the hall. It was an odd placement for such a thing, especially since books were no small expense, but she didn’t seem particularly concerned. She picked one up and flipped through it absently, humming to herself. Jaskier looked around, feeling as though he was missing something.

“What are we-- _ guhaaA!”  _ He cut himself off with an undignified noise as the bookcase swung backward on silent hinges. Beyond the opening was a dark voice. He nearly toppled over backward in surprise.

“Just how many secret doors do you have?” He hissed, wondering how many other seemingly innocuous items would lead to hidden rooms. Rosa pressed a finger to her lips in a shushing motion.

“You need not worry about that. Follow me. Shut the door behind you.” He followed her hesitantly, making sure that the bookcase slid snugly back into its original place. They were immediately plunged into total darkness, but he could still see quite clearly. His newfound night vision was showing no signs of disappearing soon. He turned around, perturbed but with no intention of saying anything, and found Rosa watching him with a searching gaze. When he met her eyes with ease, the pensive expression on her face melted into a knowing grin.

“I thought so. You can see me?”

“Yes. For some reason.”

“This is not normal?”

“Well, no. It’s been since I escaped. None of this started until then.” He shrugged.

“Hm.” She spun around with impressive speed. With a careless wave of her hand and a gesture that looked suspiciously like  _ Igni,  _ several torches around the room ignited with a  _ whoosh.  _ Jaskier paused for a moment to take it in, wondering just how powerful Rosa truly was.

Jaskier supposed that if you’d asked him to describe a witch’s secret lair, he might’ve weaved an image similar to the scene in front of him. It was almost laughably cliché in its appearance; an entire wall had been dedicated to shelves of small glass bottles, filled with numerous colorful substances. A table sat to his left, herbs in various states littering its surface. A few quills and half a dozen charcoal sticks were piled next to a hefty stack of paper, covered in indecipherable ledgers and stains. To his right, there were dozens of bundles of leaves hanging from the rafters, obviously in the process of drying. On the back wall were several shelves, stocked completely full of ancient-looking tomes.

“Quite a setup you’ve got here.”

“It is modest.” She indicated one of the chairs at the cluttered table and set their drinks down on top of it. Jaskier had his doubts as to what  _ modest  _ meant, but he complied and sat, twisting one of his rings.

“So, blood magic. I sincerely hope it doesn’t involve too  _ much  _ blood. I don’t have much to spare at the moment.” He winced involuntarily as his leg twinged in agreement. Rosa rolled her eyes at his attempt at a joke and stood across the table from him, grinding up and combining unnamed herbs with a pestle in a large stone mortar.

“No, bard. It will not require much.”

“Oh. Well that’s good.” Jaskier sat in silence, trying not to move around too much. His fingers itched for his lute, but he’d left it propped on the table in his drunken state. Good thing the door was locked; Geralt would hardly forgive him if he lost Filavandrel’s prized lute. He took a long drink of his ale instead.

Rosa passed him a small paring knife and pointed at the powdered herbs in front of her.

“Your blood. In there.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Jaskier held out his hand over the bowl and swallowed hard--he wasn’t typically involved in the business of putting holes in his body--that was more Geralt’s forte. Just as he was about to press the blade into his palm, Rosa interrupted him by smacking his hand away.

“Are you stupid? Not the palm. Many nerves and tendons, takes too long to heal. Easy to create too much damage. You want to play your lute, yes?”

Feeling foolish, Jaskier nodded. Rosa scoffed and muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like  _ one would think you have never done this before.  _

“Yeah, one would think so,” he muttered back sardonically, feeling phenomenally out of place. Rosa snatched his arm and guided him forward until it was hovering over the mortar. She indicated the top of his wrist. That made sense, he supposed. The skin there was slightly tanned, tougher, and a great deal less sensitive than his hand. He nodded his understanding, taking a deep breath, and swiped the blade across before he could think too long about it.

It didn’t actually hurt that much; it was more the idea of purposefully spilling his own blood that had unsettled him. The blade that Rosa had provided was very sharp and he hadn’t needed to cut that deep to get the blood flowing. Once about a thimbleful had fallen in to mix with the herbs, she handed him a clean cloth.

“Use that to staunch it. Hold your arm up. Put pressure on it. The bleeding will stop soon enough.” He did as he was told and tucked his arm against his chest so that the cut was above his heart. He’d gotten into his own fair share of bar fights and patched up Geralt’s wounds enough times to know how to care for such a menial cut.

He watched with interest as Rosa went about mixing the herbs again. They eventually turned a uniform dark brown color, almost indistinguishable in the low light. Once she was satisfied, she picked up the mixture, shuffled to the middle of the room, and set it down on the floor. Then she backed up several paces, knelt with surprising ease, and settled into a meditative position eerily similar to Geralt’s favorite pose. He’d seen it enough times to recognize it and wondered if it was a universal thing that they taught all magic-users. For a brief moment, he entertained the image of Geralt learning magic alongside Rosa. Would they have been friends? Geralt wasn’t much of a talker now, but what had he been like before the trials? Who would win in a fight? It was hard to say, but no doubt it would be spectacular to witness--

He was daydreaming again. Rosa waved her hand in that familiar gesture, and this time all of the torches went out. Simultaneously, the stone bowl in the center of the room sparked and smoldered, its contents smoking heavily.

If he’d been with Geralt, this was about the time he would’ve started asking questions. His greatest difficulty in situations such as this was remaining quiet, fighting the urge to fill the void of silence. He’d done it too many times to count on hunts, scaring away prey or alerting monsters to their presence. If it wasn’t a hunt, he was disturbing Geralt’s meditation, or potion-making, or his precious ‘blessed silence.’ Of course, he always knew his questions were doomed to never be answered unless his witcher was in a particularly charitable mood. But Geralt wasn’t there. No, instead he was in the company of a very powerful witch. One who he suspected didn’t tolerate being interrupted as well as Geralt did. So he remained silent and set aside his curiosity for another time.

Rosa began to chant in Elder, her voice low; he recognized the cadence of the words, the rhythmic quality the language had, but her voice was far too quiet for him to make out the words. A bitter smell permeated the small room, simultaneously repulsive and intoxicating. He watched with fascination as the smoke changed colors and circled through the air, forming intricate patterns. He wasn’t entirely sure what Rosa was getting out of the spell, at a complete loss himself. He was not versed in the ways of magic, yet he had the distinct sense that this was far beyond the use of most human magic-users.

It was impossible to tell how much time passed. It was enough that his arm stopped bleeding and his ale had emptied before Rosa’s soothing voice stopped. She stood, and the spell broke. The torches flared to life once more, and the few remains of the mixture in the mortar were extinguished. She sat down heavily in the chair across from him, clearly exhausted.

“Yours is a difficult case. Your exact ancestry, I cannot be sure of.”

“But you do know  _ something?”  _ He shifted in his seat, a sudden burst of adrenaline flooding him. They were so close. 

Rosa nodded sagely and folded her hands, appearing uncertain about what to say next. She pondered over her words for a moment before meeting his eyes, her piercing gaze rooting him to the spot.

“Your ancestry was near impossible to follow. Like a foggy path without a map. On one side, very clear. On the other side, indefinable. But strong. I suspect you may never know your mother. But I was correct; she was not human. One of your parents is perhaps of Elder descent. Your magic is potent. Untapped. Difficult to trace, harder to control.”

“So... _ did  _ you actually learn anything new?” He felt his hopes sinking with every word she uttered.

“Initially, I suspected elven blood. But you have no deformities, no ailments that might confirm it. Then I thought, is it a curse? But though there are plenty who wish you ill intent--” and wow,  _ that  _ made Jaskier feel all warm and fuzzy, “there are no dark shadows following you.”

“So, what, we’ve just eliminated some things?” He asked, impatient.

“Not exactly. I followed the trails of your parentage. And there is magic in both directions. I suspect your magic roots are twofold; you inherited Chaos from both your mother and your father.” He was definitely going to be sending a strongly-worded letter to Lettenhove at the next available opportunity. He gave her a  _ go on  _ gesture, sensing that she was getting to the point.

“You have Elder blood, that much is certain.  _ That  _ is easy to detect. Very, very rare. But easy. Explains why emotions affect you so strongly. Why it took this long for your magic to manifest.” Jaskier recalled the raw panic and fear he’d felt in the courtyard and begrudgingly admitted that it made sense. He remembered stories he’d heard as a child about Lara Dorren, elven curses, genetic experiments. Children of illegitimate children. But while that was enough of a shock, Rosa wasn’t finished yet.

“Your mother was much more difficult. But I was able to determine one thing.” She paused, eyeing his already shaking hands, the way he had twisted his fingers into his trousers in anticipation. She was sizing him up, judging if he could take it.

“For gods’  _ sake,  _ Rosa, whatever it is, I’m sure I can handle it! It’s the  _ waiting  _ that will send me to an early grave, so do get on with it!”

Rosa raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing him, but chose mercy and spoke. She took a breath and Jaskier held his own, world narrowing to a point in that moment. The only thing that mattered to him for just that instance was what came out of her mouth next.

“It is my strong conviction that you are half-fae, bard.” 

Silence prevailed as Jaskier remained rooted to his seat, struggling to process the words through the haze of alcohol and his own disbelief. When he finally did speak, his voice was weak.

“Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m actively seeking suggestions for Jaskier’s new horse’s name, so if you’ve got ideas shoot ‘em at me in the comments! I always look forward to hearing from y’all.  
> So, if you’re an avid wiki reader, you might remember that the Elder Blood gene can only be “active” in female descendants of Lara Dorren. Now, I didn’t go into this story with the explicit goal of hc’ing Jaskier as trans, per se, but I’m not mad about the development. As a genderfluid person myself, it makes something in me very happy. So there you have it. Jaskier is trans and I love him.  
> Also, if you’re interested in checking out some of my art for this series you should hop over to ineffable-doodles on tumblr! That’s my art blog and in addition to my writing I also post fun art of my fics from time to time! All art from this story is under the tag ‘cloak and dagger.’ As an example, here’s [Rosa in all of her glory.](https://ineffable-doodles.tumblr.com/post/621663657247571968/a-lil-somethin-somethin-for-my-cloak-and-dagger) I also post periodic short life updates there, so if a fic is running late that’s a great place to check for an explanation. I make an effort to keep my followers in the loop and to reassure y’all that no matter how long it might take me to write a chapter, I will *never* abandon a fic. And if I take a hiatus I will of course tell y’all, not leave you hanging forever.  
> Up next: The chapter you've all been waiting for ;)


	12. I've waited oh so long for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt considers the merits of being mortal. Jaskier considers the merits of ending the life of one (1) nobleman.  
> CW for suicidal ideation from Geralt--he’d not actively trying to end his life, but he gets very overwhelmed. Also notable: Jaskier gets pretty dark and pretty feral in this chapter. Read with discretion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, thank you to my amazing beta ShyThrush for taking the time to go over this absolute BEAST of a chapter! I’ll not bore you all with the long author’s note at the beginning, since I’ve already made you wait long enough--suffice it to say that this is the moment you’ve all been waiting for ;)

Geralt had decided that time was stupid and that he didn’t like it. At all. It was pointless to consider, for a being like himself who didn’t really experience its effects. Being a witcher and all. But what he liked even less than time itself was that he’d long since lost the ability to distinguish its passing.

At first, he’d been able to tell how much time had passed simply by gauging his hunger and his thirst. Those had always been reliable in the past. But after a while, even those feelings became difficult to understand. The hunger came and went in vicious and increasingly painful cycles until all he knew was that his stomach was cramping and that he likely wouldn’t be able to keep down anything he ate anyways. The thirst, however, never left, persistently dogging him like a demented hound. It eventually became so intense that it stopped getting worse, or if it was he could no longer detect it against the constant background of agony. All of this was to say that his only two reliable indicators of time passing had become useless. 

He actually wasn’t sure how he was still alive at this point, if he were entirely honest with himself. Wasn’t sure if he even  _ wanted  _ to be alive anymore. Certainly, it had long since surpassed being worth it to continue fighting--Campbell knew he wouldn’t give him what he wanted, and they both knew they were only extending his suffering the longer he stayed in the land of the living. His body was nearing giving out. But he continued to keep fighting for life on principle. 

He wondered what his brothers would say. They would miss him, most definitely. They would mourn him, drink to his passing come winter when he failed to show at the keep. Winter would be different without him: more chores for the remaining two, fewer stories of the year’s adventures at the fireside. It wouldn’t be much quieter--he rarely did much talking, preferring to let his brothers fill the silence and adding in his own opinions when he felt like it. The keep would feel emptier, though. Every year that one of them didn’t return, Kaer Morhen felt just a little bit bigger, a little less welcoming. He felt sorry for that, for leaving them alone, at least. And truth be told, he had no desire to  _ die,  _ per se. But he was exhausted, and giving up seemed much easier than continuing to fight the inevitable. 

In contrast to his brothers, Geralt didn’t need to guess what Vesemir would say, because the old witcher had decided to keep him company in his final days. That in itself was odd, but what was stranger was that Jaskier had joined him as well. Geralt was certain he remembered something about the bard leaving permanently, but his head was too foggy to recall the finer details. 

Vesemir and Jaskier were currently sitting cross-legged and deeply engaged in a heated game of Gwent in the corner, calling out all sorts of strange insults to each other. They must have been playing some twisted version of house rules because they weren’t making much sense either. They kept pulling more cards even though that was definitely against the rules, and for some reason there were a great deal of aces and numbers integrated into the deck. It was currently Jaskier’s turn--he had his back to Geralt, but would occasionally turn to ask for his advice.

“Geralt, what do you think? Should I play my Foltest card? Too soon?” Jaskier held up his deck so Geralt could see from his spot across the room. At some point, they’d let out the slack in his chains so that he could slump onto the floor; to say that it had been a relief would be such an understatement that it was sinful.

“Hmph.” Geralt grunted, unable to muster the energy for a more enthusiastic or detailed response. Jaskier, clairvoyant as he was, easily understood his input as  _ no, build up your long-range defense before you do that. _

“Oh, quite right. How foolish of me.” He laid down another card in his third row and smirked at Vesemir. The old witcher didn’t look perturbed, though, and raised an eyebrow.

“Do you have any sevens?” His voice was gravelly--he’d spoken more in the last hour than Geralt had ever seen him do.

“Go fish.”

“Drat.” The old witcher didn’t sound at all concerned by his wasted turn.

“Do you have any queens?” Jaskier sounded far too hopeful. Geralt would need to talk to him about his poker face, later. Right now, a child could beat him.

“Go fish, bard.”

“Dammit.”

“My turn. Do you have any jacks?” Vesemir asked, looking far too certain to have not known the answer.

“Shit, Vesemir. Are you counting cards?” Jaskier shot his opponent an accusatory glare and handed him three cards from his hand. Vesemir stacked them with a single jack in his own hand and laid them face up on the ground.

“I see your queen and raise you five loaves of bread.” Jaskier pulled some of his trademark pants bread from somewhere around his nether regions and set it down in the pot, which Geralt was fairly sure hadn’t been there before. Vesemir’s expression betrayed nothing.

“I don’t think it’s right that I’m playing against a witcher at least two centuries older than me. How am I supposed to get anything from your poker face?! I think you have an unfair advantage.” Jaskier pouted.

“I haven’t said a word about you teaming up with Geralt over there. Our playing field is perfectly even.” Vesemir retorted. Jaskier pouted and took a bite of his pants bread, spluttering when he found the flavor less than appetizing.

“Damn. Stale.”

“What did you expect, bard? It’s been there for, what, three days?”

“Pants bread never gets stale. That’s an affront to my ingenious bread-storing techniques.”

_ “Bread-storing techniques, _ my ass. You’re a seasoned traveler; you should know better than to store food in your pockets. That’s how pants get eaten by wild animals.”

Geralt knew from experience that Jaskier knew next to nothing about storing food to keep on the road. He was sure that the bard had to have possessed some modicum of common sense before he’d met his witcher, but it seemed to have flown out the metaphorical window in Posada. He’d only ever witnessed the man make foolish and easily preventable mistakes when it came to stashing his bread. Vesemir continued his lecture.

“You’ve got to store it wrapped in paper, to absorb the moisture. If you just leave it open to the air, of course, it’s going to go stale. That’s how bread works, bard.” The witcher snorted and laid down a card. Geralt couldn’t make it out from where he was half-slumped on the ground, but Jaskier smacked a hand against his own chest and gasped like he’d been gravely affronted.

“How could you?!”

“Strategy, bard,” Vesemir smirked as he gathered the coin and pants-bread and piled it in his corner. Before his mentor’s victory could devolve into yet another all-out fight between the two, the distant sound of the bolt at the top of the stairs sliding out of the lock made Geralt flinch violently. His sudden movement, combined with the raucous clattering of his chains, drew their attention easily. 

Jaskier glanced over his shoulder, concern blatantly evident on his face. He looked back at Vesemir for some kind of guidance, completely at a loss.

_ “What can we do?”  _ He mouthed. Vesemir shook his head sadly, knowing there was nothing that could be done. Geralt didn’t fully understand  _ why  _ they couldn’t help him, only that it was against the unspoken set of Rules they had. 

Another one of the Rules was  _ don’t talk to Jaskier or Vesemir while someone else is in the room.  _ That one had been established very quickly after the lord’s last visit. Geralt recalled it with a shudder, reflexively casting a fearful glance at the now-cold coals in the forge.

___

_ Campbell emerged from the dark hallway, looking refreshed and ready to go again. This was before Geralt had lost all sense of time, and he knew that it must have been a new day from his appearance. The lord was wearing different clothes, and he smelled vaguely of soap and breakfast foods. Geralt’s stomach rumbled. _

_ “Well, Butcher. Ready to talk or shall I just begin, skip the pleasantries?” Geralt wasn’t even sure if Campbell wanted him to answer, if he was being honest. He was hardly ever given time to speak before the lord started his sessions, even if he’d intended to share. He had a sneaking suspicion that Campbell was actually quite aware of who was after him. It was likely that he’d used the assassin story to get his hands on a witcher. Maybe the assassin didn’t even  _ exist.  _ Humans could be truly twisted, in that way. Whatever the lord’s original intention, he was certainly gleaning an unsettling amount of joy from his time with Geralt. _

_ “I have something a bit different in mind for us, today, Butcher. While the whip and the knives and the other tools are fun, they do get somewhat boring after a time. I hope you will appreciate my efforts to keep things interesting.” He walked smoothly to the fireplace, which had remained dark and cold for Geralt’s entire duration in the dungeon thus far. His stomach immediately sank to his toes. This was one method of torture he’d been hoping to avoid, but it seemed his luck was out to get him. _

_ Jaskier and Vesemir watched with undisguised worry on their faces as Campbell stooped and tossed several logs into the large opening. With the help of one of the oil lamps on the wall, the fire was soon roaring in the forge. Unfortunately, the wide chimney was doing its job and ventilating the smoke out of the dungeon. A shame, Geralt had hoped that it would choke the lord out before he was able to do any more damage.  _

_ Geralt felt sweat drip down his temple and wondered if it was from the sudden output of heat that the forge was providing, a fever, or fear. There was a good chance that it was all three, he supposed.  _

_ Campbell picked up one of the neglected tools--an iron fire poker--and began casually shifting the burning logs in the forge. Before long, they were glowing orange and crumbling into superheated coals. The lord pumped the large bellows a few times, sending waves of heat out into the room.  _

_ Geralt shivered and shot a panicked look at Vesemir, who seemed worried but was making no move to prevent what was obviously coming next. Jaskier moved to stand next to him and squeezed his shoulder in an attempt at comfort, but the gesture would do very little to prevent the oncoming pain. _

_ “Why aren’t you doing anything?” He hissed at the bard. Jaskier glanced briefly at the lord, a look of warning on his face. Geralt didn’t notice Campbell tilt his head suspiciously, ears tuned to hear his wrecked voice. _

_ “I  _ can’t,  _ Geralt. It’s against the Rules.” _

_ “Rules, rules, what ‘rules?’ You keep talking about them but you haven’t explained a thing. Vesemir,  _ please,”  _ and his mentor looked absolutely broken by his begging, “don’t let him do this. I know you can stop him, you could stop an army.” _

_ The old witcher only shook his head in response, forehead pinching with some indecipherable emotion. Geralt didn’t understand. Vesemir never had been very expressive. _

_ “Geralt, don’t you understand?” _

_ “No!” He raised his voice to a low growl and Campbell turned, eyes narrowed. Behind Jaskier, Vesemir was shaking his head in warning. _

_ “Who are you talking to, witcher?” Campbell raised the red-hot poker so close to Geralt’s face that he felt his eyebrows begin to smolder. It cast an angry red light on their faces, stinging his skin by sheer proximity.  _

_ “How could you not know who I’m talking to, bastard? They’re right there, where they’ve been the whole time.” He nodded at the corner where his best friend and father-figure were standing. Jaskier was frantically shaking his head, holding his hands out as if to say ‘don’t!’ Geralt didn’t understand what they weren’t telling him, why they weren’t telling him. Campbell whipped around, brandishing the poker like a weapon. When his eyes fell on them, he acted as if they weren’t there. _

_ “What sort of a trick is this, Butcher?!” He shouted, eyes glinting madly. Geralt didn’t get it. They were  _ right  _ there. How could he not see them? Was it an invisibility spell? Were they cursed? Was  _ he  _ cursed? _

_ “Are you blind, man?” He growled, baring his teeth. Mind games, to top the whole five-star experience off. Why not? Clearly nothing was off-limits.  _

_ “I am far from blind, you stupid brute. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but your games won’t last long.”  _

_ White-hot pain against his skin, burning and hissing, and Jaskier’s anguished cries were all he knew for the next infinity. _

___

The burns all along his ribs and back were still smarting. He didn’t know how long it had been since Campbell had left, just that it could never be long enough. His exhausted body was having a hell of a time trying to keep up with the numerous and never-ending injuries. He knew it was only a matter of time before his reserves ran empty and he just stopped healing altogether; by then, he would have merely days, possibly even hours, left to live. And finally, he would know peace.

He would like to say that he would leave the world with no regrets, but then was anyone ever truly ready to die? He hoped that his brothers wouldn’t miss him too much, but he knew how he would feel, should their positions be reversed. He’d seen it before. Eskel would fall silent for weeks on end, drown himself in drink, and then pull himself together and move on. Lambert would be angry: angry at Geralt, angry at Campbell, angry at the world...angry at himself. He would turn destructive, and only time would tell if it was turned inward or aimed outward. Would they ever find out what had happened to him? Or was he doomed to simply disappear, the way so many others had gone?

That was the worst way to find out--Geralt knew from experience. It meant that one season, one of them simply didn’t return. No letter of explanation. No word from the others. Just gone without a trace. For a while, there would be a glimmer of hope every winter, the hope that one day,  _ just one day,  _ they would make their triumphant return. It had happened before: a witcher going off the grid for one reason or another, only to resurface years or even decades later. But more often it was the other case. Over time, that spark of hope would gradually dwindle until it was snuffed out. Winter after winter of silence. Until one season it was finally decided that it had been too long, and a symbolic grave would be placed at Kaer Morhen to honor the dead. 

The sound of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs pulled him from his gloomy train of thoughts. A jeering call at the man in the main room--what had his name been? Albert? Alastair?

_ Aldwin.  _ That was it. 

There were the sounds of an angry exchange. Raised voices--one full of rage and one taunting, cruel. He’d almost forgotten about the manservant who’d led them to their room, who’d led Jaskier to him. He idly hoped that the man had been receiving more hospitable care than he’d been graced with. While Geralt didn’t fully trust him, the fact that the unfortunate manservant wasn’t in Campbell’s good graces boded well for his moral compass. If Geralt perked his ears and focused, he could just barely make out what they were saying.

“--you doing to that poor man? I’ve been hearing shouts for days.”

“Not that it’s any of your business. We’re making him at home, giving him a  _ warm  _ welcome if you will. You’re familiar with what’s back there. Use your imagination, Aldwin.”

“I’d rather not. You know he’s done nothing to deserve this.”

“You would argue on behalf of that creature?  _ Done nothing to deserve this,  _ Aldwin? You’ve seen ‘im. That’s no man. That’s a beast, a witcher. He’s killed dozens without batting an eye, and you think he deserves mercy? Surely, you’ve heard of Blaviken? That Butcher has lived in peace for decades without ever facing punishment for his crimes!” Geralt winced involuntarily as the man brought up his less-than-stellar record.

“Even so, it isn’t your place to play judge, jury and executioner for whatever he has done in his past.”

“Ha! You  _ would  _ say something like that, old man. No, I will happily provide his punishment. No one else has had the balls to do it in all of these years. I’ll not stand by as a murderer continues to breathe unbothered by his crimes. Campbell’s got it right. One less witcher in the world is a good deed done.”

“You speak of morals and yet you gleefully torture a man as the very life bleeds from him. You are no better than the monsters he hunts.”

“Worse, I would argue,” Jaskier cut in, hands on his hips. Vesemir shushed him with a glare. The bard looked indignant but didn’t push the issue. The new guard spoke again.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” The finality in his tone brooked no room for argument, signaling that the conversation was over. A heavy sigh from Aldwin and Geralt tensed as he heard the other man’s footsteps approach. 

He would remember Aldwin if he ever escaped. The man deserved better than this hellhole. Hopefully, the servant would survive whatever the lord had in store for him.

The man who sauntered into the room looked much the same as every other one of Campbell’s cronies. He had the same cruel pinch between his eyes, the same unsettling lack of crows’ feet that spoke of a humorless life. Geralt wondered if fate had been unkind to him. Destiny rarely created people born cruel; more often they were forged in cruelty, turned bitter and angry through whatever lot they’d drawn in the world. Campbell was one example--children, Geralt knew (another reason why he loved them so), didn’t come by a vicious nature naturally. His best guess was that the lord had been taught hatred and sadism through the life of a noble, born into privilege and a life of comfort, and scorning anyone different. His men were of a different, but no less unkind nature. These were people who had become bitter as a result of hardship, jaded to the point of no return. He’d also seen their counterpoint in those who were reluctant or outright refused to take part in his misery; those were the folk who had taken the hardships that life had thrown at them and learned from them to be kind because they had experienced the worst the world had to offer. Aldwin was one of those men.

Campbell’s kind was always the worst, because it was nigh impossible to persuade them to care about other people. They didn’t bother with folk they hated or didn’t understand, rather choosing to turn a blind eye to the suffering of those less fortunate in favor of their own selfish pleasures. Too often they were set in their inhuman ways, content to watch the world collapse around them as long as they had their comforts.

Geralt had always thought it funny that the cruelest and evilest of humans were so often called ‘inhuman,’ when really they were the crux of it all, the perfect example of the rare extremes that humanity could reach. Where else, besides humanity, can one find someone who harms another, not out of necessity, but simply because it is  _ fun?  _ Where else is it so easy to find monsters, than in the human race?

He wasn’t sure when the word monster had become synonymous with evil, but he found it ironic that in reality, very few monsters were evil and a good deal more humans fell into that category. And often the most terrifying of beasts came from humanity’s wicked ways.

Geralt’s latest company was, of course, completely oblivious to his inner thoughts, since he didn’t bother to speak them out loud. He doubted that his words would be very coherent, given his current state. And probably less than appreciated by the man he’d just heard lecture Aldwin on the disposability of witchers. Better to not give him more reason to hurt him. 

For what felt like the hundredth time (And who knew? Maybe it was. He’d lost track so many times already), he debated the merits of giving up the name of that noble family that had set the assassin on Campbell. He wondered if it would even make a difference at this point, having just overheard the conversation between Aldwin and the guard in front of him. 

Probably not. And he’d already made it this far. He already knew he was a dead man--the best he could hope for at this point was to prevent more deaths by not revealing names. It was a nice thought to imagine that the assassin might complete their mission, even if Geralt himself was dead by then.

The man standing across from him settled on one of the whips and sauntered back to him, a sickening grin painted across his face.

“Are you ready, beast?” He asked. Geralt rolled his eyes, tired of the overplayed theatrics.

“What do you think?” He growled, ignoring the way his voice was shredded from shouting. The man’s smile only grew.

_ “Good.”  _

___

“Well. This is a bit awkward.” Jaskier scratched the back of his head, taking in his latest predicament and trying to decide if it was appropriate to draw his sword. 

Standing across from him, just outside of Campbell’s castle, was a short, sturdy young person dressed in dark clothing. On their hip was a shortsword, and their hand was hovering dangerously over it was if they would draw it at any moment. Black kohl had been swept across their eyes. Their hair was pulled back out of their face and they wore an expression frozen somewhere between shock and anger.

They were standing next to a window, hastily boarded up sometime recently. Shattered glass still crunched in the grass underfoot, and a walled garden was not too far off. Jaskier had scaled said wall in the hopes that once he was past it, he would be able to easily find an unlocked entrance. He’d had no such luck and had spent the last fifteen minutes feverishly trying to pry boards off of the window, with minimal progress to show for it besides several splinters. He supposed it was just his luck that the assassin Geralt had been hired to kill would make an appearance. Probably should have made room for it in his grand scheme.

How long had it been since he’d escaped this wretched place? A little under a week, he thought. Far too long, and yet it had gone by too fast. Not enough time, but still too much. Rosa had given him a crash course on basic magic use, heavily modified to fit their limited time frame. He was a fast learner, but even he had his limits under pressure. He’d pulled together some semblance of control over how much of his own energy he drew on, and had a basic idea of what his fae half entailed, but both he and Rosa were at a loss when it came to guessing what the rest of his magic could do. He was still messy and he found it difficult to focus in high-stress situations (Rosa had explained that his emotions peaking was likely the cause of the initial explosion), but he hadn’t been able to bear waiting any longer. 

She’d forbidden him from stealing off in the night to rescue Geralt after she’d caught him attempting to slip out, even going so far as to place wards on his room to alert her if he left. Probably a good thing, even though it had driven him up the walls. He thanked Melitele that Rosa had patience, or he probably would have been turned into a toad before the time came to go after his witcher. He’d worried himself sick thinking about Geralt in between sessions with the innkeeper, considered attempting a daring escape numerous times. The old woman was no-no-nonsense, though. When he’d protested her mother-henning, she’d just jabbed him with that gnarled finger of hers and chuckled.

_ “You think you will be of much use with that leg?” _

She was right, of course. He’d healed alarmingly fast, due in part to Rosa’s magic and in part to his own recently discovered nature. It still wasn’t quite back to normal--the scar was pink and tight across his leg, and if he moved in the wrong way it sent needles straight to his bones, but he’d insisted that he could wait no longer. Geralt would be suffering needlessly while he sat and waited to heal. Finally, after three days of nonstop pestering, Rosa had given in. Jaskier was nothing if not persistent.

He’d ridden back to the center of the city shortly after dusk had fallen, Rosa and Altair waving him off as if he were simply traveling, rather than going on a mission to rescue his mission and very possibly commit murder.

Truth be known, he was very much  _ hoping  _ to commit murder. Which brought him to his current situation.

“Are you the assassin?”

Jaskier wanted to punch himself in the face for his bluntness. He was lucky he wasn’t already dead. The person didn’t speak, but their stance shifted into something slightly more relaxed. After a few tense moments, Jaskier tried again.

“Please, do continue. I have no intention of stopping you, and as it happens I am in need of an extra hand.” He shifted sideways to make room for the newcomer, gesturing at the boarded window. They swept their gaze up and down his frame, sharp eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“You are not here to stop me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Good heavens, no. I would gleefully watch while you carry out your mission. Perhaps even join you, if you would allow it.” Jaskier agreed, speaking as he tried once more to pry a board out of place. A hard shove nearly sent him to the ground as they approached the window, tearing a board off in one smooth motion. He gaped.

“That works, I suppose.” He mumbled, dusting himself off self-consciously. They didn’t respond, intent on their task. 

“You’re not going to ask why I’m here?”

“Don’t care.” They grunted, tearing off a third board and crawling through the hole they’d created. Jaskier was reminded of Geralt’s less-than-fuzzy demeanor when they’d first met in Posada. He clambered after them quickly.

It was dark in the bedroom. Jaskier nearly missed the side table resting by the window, and he thanked his keen vision for saving him. The room was in complete disarray; shattered glass covered the floor and the bed. The table he’d nearly tripped over had been tipped onto its side. Bloody handprints adorned the windowsill. Clearly there had been some sort of scuffle in this room.

“Seems Geralt tried his luck,” He murmured, biting his lip in concern. That Geralt had tried to escape and hadn’t succeeded did not bode well. The assassin shot him a glare and pressed their finger to their lips. 

“Right, yeah. Breaking in. My bad.” He whispered, reflexively resting his hand on his hip. He hadn’t truly wielded a sword since before he’d joined Geralt on the Path, but he was hoping that his tutoring in Lettenhove would finally serve some purpose. 

The castle was quiet, more so than it had been the last time he’d occupied its halls. He crept close behind the assassin, hoping that they would be hospitable to his presence. 

“Do you have a name?” He whispered, watching as they skulked about the room observing the destruction. They turned and raised an eyebrow at him.

“What? You  _ are  _ here to kill that sonuvabitch Campbell, right? Am I at the wrong castle?” He crossed his arms and popped a hip, familiar enough with the general grumpy demeanor of his own witcher to understand that they weren’t going to gut him on the spot. They rolled their eyes and nodded in response before going back to their observations.

“You talk even less than Geralt.” He mumbled. They stooped over and swept their fingers across the floor. When they lifted their hand, their fingertips were coated in a thin layer of dust.

“So this room hadn’t been used in a while. That’s not surprising, given the choice in decor. Why are we investigating this again?”

“By all means, if you are bored please do continue with whatever it is you’re here for.” They growled, sniffing the dust. 

“Finally, a full sentence!” He threw his hands in the air and ignored their scoff. They rose to their feet again and fixed him with a sharp glare.

“You carry a weapon, but you have not yet attacked me. Don’t even seem to be considering it. You’re not afraid, though you should be. So tell me, what are  _ you  _ doing here?” They rested their hand on their own sword in a subtle warning. Jaskier paused for a moment, wondering if he should tell them. He didn’t know this person. They could easily kill him in moments.

_ Your lack of fear will get you killed one day, bard.  _ Geralt provided helpfully from next to the window.

But they were also here to kill Campbell, which meant they couldn’t be all bad. Rosa had trusted  _ him  _ when she’d understood his hatred for the Lord of Yarren. It would only be fair to afford this assassin, however suspicious, the same benefit. He met their eyes and spoke. 

“I’m here to rescue my witcher. He was hired to stop you from killing Campbell, but I very much doubt he wants to or is able to at this point.” For a millisecond, their stern glare softened into something kinder. Then he blinked and it was gone.

“That is none of my concern. You should be on your way.” They stalked over to the windowsill and took in the dried blood there, dark in the moonlight. Jaskier looked at it with distaste. There was no doubt in his mind that it was anyone’s but Geralt’s. He didn’t leave the room.

“Okay, but here’s the thing. I would rather see Campbell’s demise. Maybe even participate. For my own peace of mind.”

“I am being paid to kill the lord. Someone else does it, I don’t get my money. Then I don’t eat. I won’t risk that.” They said it like they were negotiating a sale.

“No one has to know  _ who  _ delivers the killing blow,” He offered, grinning maliciously. The assassin stopped their investigation to look at him with narrowed eyes.

“You are a fool.” They concluded.

“Perhaps.”

“I will consider your offer.” 

Jaskier supposed that was the best he could hope for at the moment. Whatever they had been observing was complete, and they stood up with an air of finality. They strode to the door, which was slightly ajar, and pushed it open. Without waiting to check if Jaskier was following, they crept down the hallway. 

If Jaskier thought the room had been in disarray, it was nothing compared to the hallway. It was littered with destruction. Antique suits of armor lay in various states of assembly, their displays having been knocked over. Further down the hall, several racing trophies cluttered the floor as if they had been hastily pushed out of the way, their once shiny surfaces dull.

Jaskier followed the assassin’s calculated movements with ease, dodging the obstacles with little effort.

“Do you know your way around here?” He asked, taking in the unkempt state of their surroundings. It was obvious that this wing hadn’t been used in some time.

“Well enough.” They replied, their voice clipped. According to Campbell, they’d already attempted to take his life twice. If their memory was anything like Geralt’s, they practically had a map of the castle in their head.

“That’s good because I have no idea where I’m going.”

“You truly are a fool, then. How did you plan on rescuing your witcher?” Jaskier shrugged helplessly. They grit their teeth and the grip they had on their sword tightened.

“Fine. You can follow me. I’ll not have you mucking up my plans because you got lost.” Jaskier nodded enthusiastically. They rolled their eyes.

The pair ascended a crumbling set of stairs and crept through the hallways until the orange light of torches burning on the walls indicated that they had reached the part of the castle still being used. Then the assassin flattened themself against the wall and peeked around the corner. They waved at Jaskier to follow before disappearing.

Trailing them closely, he recognized the hall they were in as the one that had been outside his bedroom-slash-prison. He wondered if Aldwin was around. The assassin paused in their relentless pace for a moment to look at him appraisingly.

“Do you know how to use that?” They looked pointedly at the sword on his hip. Jaskier gasped theatrically, affronted.

_ “Yes,  _ I know how to use it. Wouldn’t be of much use if I didn’t.”

_ You, or the sword, Jaskier?  _ Geralt taunted.

“Good. Around this corner are Campbell’s chambers. I will take care of the guards and allow you to enter first. You will have  _ ten  _ minutes. That’s  _ it.  _ After that, I come in to finish the job.” Jaskier was actually a bit surprised that they’d given him such an opportunity, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The assassin pointed at the floor and mouthed  _ stay  _ before creeping around the corner. Jaskier was struck with the odd feeling that he’d just been treated like a dog. There was the sound of quiet scuffling and two thuds before they returned, looking no worse for the wear.

“Was that it? You’re already done?” They scoffed, wiping a dark liquid off their blade.

“They aren’t well-trained. I am.”

“Still...how many were there?”

“Two. Fewer every time. Some don’t want to die for a crooked ruler, you know.” Jaskier pondered over that for a moment before deciding they were right. They gestured around the corner, looking irritated.

“Hurry up. I don’t know what your business is with the witcher but it has already interrupted mine significantly. I won’t be patient for much longer.” For emphasis, they sheathed their blade with a  _ click.  _ Jaskier took a step around the corner, drawing his own sword out partially, before turning back as a thought struck him.

“What if more men come? What about you?” He whispered.

“You need not worry about that. Now,  _ go.  _ I don’t have all night.” Jaskier was quite certain that they actually  _ did  _ have all night, but he wasn’t about to argue.

“Do you have a name?”

“Why would I tell you a thing like that?” They snapped quietly.

“What if I need to call for you?”

“You won’t.” They grunted, glaring.

“You don’t know that. I’m not here to sell you out, remember.” There was a painfully drawn-out silence while they considered.

“Mara. You may call me Mara.” They finally spat.

“Excellent! I’m Jaskier, by the way.”

“Great! Now fucking  _ go,  _ Jaskier.” They hissed tersely. He nodded, gulping. Mara carried an aura of danger about them. He wondered if this was how most people felt around Geralt.

He hadn’t exactly intended to end up fighting a lord when he’d planned for the night. In fact, his whole carefully detailed agenda had rather gone out the figurative window with Mara’s appearance.

Ah, well. He’d tried. He worked better when he was winging things anyways. As long as he got Geralt out alive and in one piece, he could call the night a success. Mara disappeared into the darkness and Jaskier silently entered Campbell’s chambers.

It was less extravagant than he would have assumed of the lord, but it still bore enough of his personality to be recognizable. Dark red curtains adorned the wall next to the large picture window and a poster bed (again, red bedding) was seated to his right. Above the mantle was a massive, garish portrait of Campbell and his wife looking constipated. A fire burned low in the hearth, merely orange coals. It was well into the night and Campbell was a barely-visible lump on top of the mattress.

Jaskier did a quick visual sweep of the room for any hidden men. A small knot of worry in his chest loosened when he found none. It seemed odd that there had been only two posted outside of the lord’s sleeping quarters, but then he supposed that Mara had made a good point earlier. It made sense that the number of guards was dwindling after two attempts on the lord’s life; while Campbell hadn’t admitted to any casualties, he doubted that Mara exercised much mercy during their work.

Campbell was sleeping soundly like he possessed not a care in the world, like he didn’t have the weight of hundreds of unforgivable sins on his back, like he didn’t have the blood of a witcher on his hands. For someone who had seemed so on edge when they’d first met, he’d fallen into complacency very quickly. Jaskier recalled his jumpiness on that first night and compared it to the scene before him now. It was like he had dealt with an entirely different man. It left him to wonder how much of the jumpiness had been from the threat looming over his head and how much had been from the witcher glaring daggers into his back.

Jaskier was  _ so  _ going to enjoy this. A grim smile crossed his lips as he tested the weight of the sword in his hand. He’d almost left without a weapon, but Rosa had pressed the ornate blade into his palms just as he’d been about to ride off. It was well-suited to him, and he had to wonder if she hadn’t somehow tailored it to his needs. He wouldn’t put it past the woman. 

Distantly, thunder rumbled. Another late summer storm with impeccable timing. 

Perfect.

Before he could overthink his actions too much, Jaskier grabbed a handful of Campbell’s robes and dragged him bodily out of bed, feeling not at all sorry about the heavy thump of his weight hitting the floor. Immediately, the man awoke and threw an uncoordinated fist in his direction. Jaskier countered with a fist of his own and struck true with a soft  _ crunch _ , bloodying the lord’s nose and lips in a single blow. A yelp flew from the lord’s mouth as Jaskier dragged him to the center of the room and away from the bed. He tossed him down, his brittle smile shattering into something ugly. 

Campbell blinked around blearily, still half-asleep and disoriented from the punch. His broken nose gushed blood onto his chest. Jaskier watched as he scanned his surroundings, his gaze finally settling on his attacker only after he’d looked at the rest of the room. As soon as he laid eyes on the bard, his expression shuttered.

_ “You.”  _

“Me.” Jaskier agreed, twirling his sword experimentally. He probably should have put in a few practice swings before diving into the real thing. He was a bit rusty.

“You should be dead,” Campbell growled, wiping at his nose and chin.

“Should I now? I’m afraid I must have missed the message. Try again another time.” He shrugged, noticing how cool his voice had become. His grip on his sword had tightened to be almost painful, his jaw clenched tightly. He forced himself to relax--tension would lead to grave errors.

He rolled his shoulders as Campbell tried to subtly inch backward, undoubtedly in search of some hidden weapon. Even a man with as much hubris as he boasted wouldn’t be foolish enough to sleep without a blade in close range. Jaskier stepped none too lightly on the man’s robes, assuring he could go no farther, and leveled the sword at his exposed neck.

“Here’s the good news: your assassin problem should be over before the night is up. The bad news? I’m afraid you won’t be around to see it.” He said conversationally.

“Is that a threat, bard?” Campbell growled.

“Interpret it as you will; I can assure you that you have more immediate concerns to be worried about.” He pressed his blade into the pale flesh until a bead of blood formed and slid down his neck. The pristine white rug below him colored crimson as it flowed into the fibers.

“I  _ could  _ make this easy for you. Relatively painless. But the thing is, I don’t really want to.” Jaskier smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. For the first time, something like apprehension entered the lord’s expression. 

“I can call for guards right now. They would come,” he replied, not sounding very sure of himself.

“Call all you like, Campbell. But I can assure you that you won’t be breathing to see their arrival.”

“And what are you going to do? After all, you’re just a bard.”

“A bard who also happens to be Viscount de Lettenhove, trained in the art of the sword and none too happy with the man on the other end of the blade.” His usually melodious voice had taken on a flinty edge that he nearly didn’t recognize. He sounded like his father--he’d had no cause to employ this side of himself since his departure from his childhood home.

“But I’ll be frank with you Campbell; simply killing you like this would be too kind. Especially with the hospitality you’ve provided for my closest friend. Death is too easy for the likes of you, and my only regret is that I don’t have time to serve you the suffering you have earned.” Jaskier lifted his blade from Campbell’s neck, drinking in the sight of his blood. He was buzzing with anxiety, adrenaline,  _ anticipation.  _

He wanted to see Campbell pay, and he harbored no shame for his bloodlust. His heart  _ sang  _ for revenge. He knew he was capable of impressive sadism, given the right motivator. Hurting his best friend was more than sufficient fuel.

“Here’s what I’m going to do, Campbell. One  _ teensy  _ little nick for each day that you’ve caused me or my witcher undue harm.” Jaskier couldn’t resist a touch of drama, and this situation more than called for it.

He began with a bone-deep cut across Campbell’s right shoulder, rendering his arm all but useless. Campbell hissed and jerked into the floor, clutching trembling fingers around the gaping wound. His eyes widened in alarm as if he hadn’t believed that Jaskier would follow through on his threats. Jaskier planted his foot solidly on his chest, reveling in the shaky exhale that followed.

“Just a  _ sampling  _ of the hurt you’ve surely caused Geralt. That’s not to mention me, or the countless others you’ve no doubt terrorized.” A second gash, this time on the sensitive underside of his upper arm. Campbell squeaked, but Jaskier’s tirade seemed to have robbed him of his usual scathing words. 

“Cat got your tongue, Lord Campbell? Don’t worry, only eleven more to go. I’m sure you can handle it--after all, why would you dish it if you couldn’t take it as well? Code of honor and all. Tell me, what have you been up to in the days I’ve been gone? I somehow doubt it’s involved tea parties and civility. You quickly tossed that charade as soon as Geralt made it clear we had no desire to take your contract.” The third strike landed on Campbell’s inner thigh. Jaskier, angry though he was, was careful to ensure he didn’t cut so deep as to prematurely end his time with the lord. He wanted this to be as slow as possible.

The fourth and fifth cuts were twin ribbons of red across Campbell’s ribs. He shouted in pain and bared his blood-coated teeth at Jaskier, looking furious.

“What does this get you, bard? Even now, your witcher could be dying in the dungeon while you have your fun.” He taunted, spitting onto the floor. For a moment, Jaskier nearly derailed before he remembered who he was working with. He removed his foot from Campbell’s chest to kneel close to him. The lord’s foul breath puffed on his face as he panted. Jaskier growled and took a handful of his hair, yanking his head up to expose his neck and resting his sword there.

“Not so fun on the other side of the blade, is it?” He spat, twisting his wrist to leave a mark deep enough to scar. Not that he planned on Campbell living long enough for it to become one. The lord’s jaw worked as he tried to decide if he wanted to answer. Impatient, Jaskier flipped out his boot dagger and twirled it lazily in his fingers. Suddenly emboldened, Campbell spoke.

“You are a coward. You attack a man in his bed as he sleeps and threaten him with death.” He hissed.

“Let’s make one thing clear: I’m threatening you with much more than death. But that’s besides the point; perhaps you’re right. Here’s the way I see it: you have the equivalent of a small army at your disposal, most of them crooked enough to kill someone they know to be an innocent man. I’m merely leveling the playing field.” Jaskier stopped the blade spinning in his hand and lowered it to Campbell’s face, dragging it almost lovingly across his cheek, pressing hard. Tears welled up in his eyes and he tried to flinch away, but the hand Jaskier had in his hair held tight. Rivulets of scarlet trailed down his jaw and stained the collar of his expensive silks.

“That’s seven. I’m rather impressed, Campbell! We’re over halfway there.” He patted him condescendingly and rose to his full height, towering over the man.

Jaskier knew he looked a sight, cast in pale moonlight and rage painted across his face. His clothes were a far cry from his usual wardrobe, a no-nonsense outfit provided by Rosa; a muted red shirt, simple brown trousers, and a pair of sturdy boots. When he’d complained about the lack of flair, she’d easily reminded him that the goal was to remain invisible. That hadn’t stopped him from tucking a sprig of tansy flowers into the laces of his shirt before he left; Rosa had only shaken her head when she’s seen. 

“Do you know what these are, Campbell?” Jaskier indicated the yellow blooms nestled close to his chest. The lord looked murderous.

“Flowers, I imagine. But please, do lecture me, I can see it coming.” He rolled his eyes. Jaskier ignored the jab and continued.

“Not just any flowers, Lord Campbell.  _ Tansy  _ flowers. I happened to lay eyes on a patch of them blooming conveniently close to where I have been hiding out, and I knew that I couldn’t show up to your accursed castle without them. Surely you have no clue what they mean, so I’ll impart some knowledge to you--you see, they are often used to induce abortions. They are a common flower, particularly in this part of the Continent, but few know their meaning. Depending on which florist you ask, it can vary wildly. I could delve into a long-winded explanation, but I’ll keep it simple for you: revenge. I couldn’t resist just a touch of poetry, even if you are too ignorant to understand the symbolism.”

Campbell looked thoroughly bored, though he was bleeding out on his own bedchamber floors. Jaskier decided to remedy that by replying to his initial jab.

“And about Geralt. I am familiar enough with your kind to know that you wouldn’t have killed him just yet. You’ll be keeping him just barely alive, no doubt, slightly closer to living than dead. He will be fine while I make sure this land is freed from your presence.” Jaskier’s blade flashed dangerously close to the lord’s groin, barely missing the sensitive equipment there. Eight and nine. 

Campbell let out a pained shout and his hands flashed to his leg to stem the flow of the blood, but he couldn’t seem to decide which injury to see to first. He scuttled backward, leaving red trails across the floor, and his back collided with the bed. Another brilliant strike of lightning illuminated his face, terror now painted across his features like a grotesque portrait. Jaskier followed his movement easily, slowly. The thrill of the hunt, of his long-awaited quarry helpless in front of him, was enough to nearly intoxicate him.

Another blinding flash through the open window cast the entire room in sharp relief for the briefest of moments. It was enough that it revealed Campbell reaching under the bed, something in his hand reflecting brightly. 

_ “Shit,”  _ Jaskier hissed, eyes widening. He leaped back just in time to avoid a fumbling strike at his ankle. He nearly fell in his haste, unbalanced by the sudden movement. His leg twinged furiously, but he ignored it as the lord rolled sideways to dodge an angry slash of his blade.

“Not so fast, Campbell!” He shouted, sinking into a fighting stance and landing an additional blow. That made ten. The lord was bleeding heavily and he was unsteady as he rose to his feet, bracing himself on one of the bed’s posters.

“You must be truly foolish if you think this is a fight you can win,” Jaskier said. The  _ pat, pat,  _ of Campbell’s life force dripping onto the saturated rug seemed to agree with him, but the lord had a wild look in his eyes. Jaskier knew that look. He’d seen it many times--his opponent no longer had anything left to lose. He was going to do his damndest to take Jaskier down with him. 

So wrapped up in his conclusions, Jaskier nearly didn’t evade the wild swipe at his face. Thunder cracked outside and Jaskier lifted his blade just in time for it to collide loudly with the large dagger that Campbell had pulled from under the bed. His grip was loose and hindered by the blood slicking his hands, but he somehow managed to hold on to the weapon. From beyond the door, Jaskier thought he heard Mara shout.

“All under control!” He called back, hoping that the frazzled statement had answered whatever they’d yelled, “Things are going  _ splendidly!”  _

Campbell twisted his arm and nearly opened Jaskier’s guard enough to take a jab at his ribs, but he parried in time to deflect the blow.

Campbell was angry, unorganized--clearly trained, but too caught up in the heat of the moment to put it to proper use. Meanwhile, Jaskier had spent the better part of two years traveling with a witcher, and by himself for a few years before that. His skills should have been far superior, he should  _ not  _ be having this much trouble-- _ aha. _

Right underneath the lord’s right arm, still bleeding heavily from the wounds inflicted earlier. Campbell wasn’t at an angle conducive to defense--Jaskier darted forward, steel sword flashing as another bolt of lightning lit up the sky, this time much closer--and another splash of scarlet joined the others on the rug.

_ “Damn--”  _ Campbell gasped, retreating for a moment. He still brandished his dagger, having switched to his left hand, but his grip was weak and he was more focused on stemming the flow of blood from his underarm.

“That’s eleven, Campbell. Feeling it yet?” Jaskier grinned, twirling his sword lazily. Just two more. Campbell growled. Jaskier didn’t move, drinking in the image. The lord made a weak attempt to step backward, but Jaskier had not been gentle with his ministrations. The cuts were deep and blood still flowed merrily from his body onto the floor. Even without Mara’s help, Jaskier was certain he would not survive the night. 

Without warning, Campbell threw the dagger with as much force as he could muster at Jaskier. He reacted slowly, not expecting it--a loud  _ clang,  _ and it fell to the floor. Not before making contact with Jaskier’s arm. The injury stung, but it wasn’t deep or life-threatening. He chuckled darkly and stepped forward. Campbell mirrored his actions, edging back toward the bed. 

Finally, Jaskier reached up and shoved Campbell in the chest. Weak and unbalanced, he toppled limply to the ground with a wheeze as the breath left his lungs. When he tried to scramble back, perhaps to take shelter under the bed, Jaskier stepped forward and pressed the sole of his boot against his ankle, slowly adding more pressure until he heard an angry  _ crack.  _ The lord nearly bit clean through his lip in his attempt to avoid making a sound, choking on his agony. To distract him from his newly broken joint, Jaskier pressed the tip of his sword against his sternum until it broke the skin, dragging it down the delicate stomach. Twelve.

Feral. That was an apt term to describe his mood. He felt dangerous like a rabid animal. His blood was humming in his veins. He wasn’t the slightest bit remorseful; that might come later, but for now, he was set on his task. He had the idea that as soon as he found Geralt, no matter how much pain he’d inflicted on Campbell he would wish he’d done more. So he reveled in his suffering, feeling dirty and out of control.

The whole room was a picture of red, any previously colorless surface all but ruined. To complete the image, the sky finally dropped open beyond the castle walls and rain began to pour relentlessly in a staccato rhythm.

Campbell finally appeared to have accepted his defeat. Angry but weak, he glared at Jaskier from the floor. For all of his preening and posturing, the fight had been short and easy for Jaskier to finish. He hadn’t even needed to unveil his newly discovered abilities to subdue the lord, though he’d been fully prepared to do so. 

It seemed rather fitting that the storm had rolled in just as he was preparing to deliver the final blow. Almost as if the clouds themselves had bent to his will. He chose to analyze that at a more appropriate time when he wasn’t staring down his bloodied enemy.

The sky shattered once more, the storm nearly on top of them this time, and thunder rattled the windows before the flash was over. Jaskier raised his sword high, having determined where the final strike would fall. The heart seemed apt; after all, it was Jaskier’s heart that had suffered the most while he’d been stuck in Rosa’s inn. Fitting that the killing blow would mirror the pain he’d caused the bard.

Campbell’s eyes widened in true fear for the last time, and Jaskier allowed his face to contort with the anger he’d been bottling up since that first night. His canines, sharp and dangerous, glinted in the low light.

The wind shifted and rain began to pelt the windows, drowning out the racing of Jaskier’s heart. If he listened close enough, he could almost imagine that he heard Campbell’s own heart thundering along in its final moments.

Jaskier tensed, channeled all of his worry and rage and pain into the downward motion of his weapon, whistling through the air as if heralding the arrival of death itself. Distantly, he felt the hair on his neck stand up.

A blinding flash. 

A crack of thunder. 

A sickening  _ squelch  _ as the sword found its home in Campbell’s chest.

A loud  _ bang  _ as the door to the chamber was flung open with impressive strength.

Mara stood in the doorway, anger and shock warring on their face as they took in the bloody scene in front of them. Jaskier stood towering over Campbell’s still twitching, his sword buried deep in the chest of her assigned target. The lord managed one final, pained gasp, eyes alight with fury before they went blank and glazed. Jaskier remained tense, holding his sword with two hands and looking rather shocked at what he had just done.

The bard, for the most part, had been spared the impromptu bloodbath. He’d managed to miraculously avoid most of Campbell’s wild attempts at an attack, a combination of adrenaline and pure instinct sparing him of any major injury. His arm was bleeding sluggishly, but he didn’t seem to even feel the wound. By contrast, the rest of the room was bathed in scarlet, puddling on the rug around the pair and underneath the still-warm body of Campbell. 

“You are aware that this was  _ my  _ job, Jaskier?”

“It seems it was your day off,” He admitted shakily, slowly coming down from the high of the battle, short though it had been. Without his guards, Campbell had been almost embarrassingly easy to kill. Mara was still glaring daggers, so he went on in an attempt to smooth things over before they decided to kill  _ him.  _

“Admittedly, you did lay all of the groundwork. A bit rude of me to come in like this and steal the glory, I really do apologize for that--I’m not sure what came over me. Just got caught up in the heat of battle, you know how it is, I’m sure--I don’t want the money! I just wanted to see the man dead--that is,” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat painfully, removing his sword from Campbell’s body with a horrible sucking sound before he spoke again, “you should obviously get all of the credit. I just want to see my witcher safe before the night is up.” Mara remained painfully silent as he rambled, their arms crossed and tapping their foot quietly on the stone floor. When it seemed his tirade would not end, they finally interrupted.

“Shut up.” Jaskier closed his mouth so fast his teeth clicked.

“The job is done. I will take my leave; you should do the same as soon as you have your witcher.” They spun on their heel and left the room without another word. Finally pulled from his daze, Jaskier followed after them hastily, throwing the door open with more force than strictly necessary. 

“Wait!” He called to the empty hallway, “Will you help me? A favor for a favor?” His voice echoed down the dark corridor. He hadn’t moved fast enough.

“Damn it,” he mumbled, wiping his sword absentmindedly on his shirt. Rosa would have a fit for it later, but he couldn’t very well sheathe a weapon still coated in warm blood.

Jaskier didn’t know his way around the damn castle. It was a right maze, and only a matter of time before the guards realized that Campbell was dead. A shift change would come, the guards would still be on the floor, and the alarm would be raised. Jaskier wasn’t confident in his ability to remove Geralt from the estate before that happened, and the last thing they needed was to become enemies of the state. That tended to happen when you killed nobles.

He sighed dejectedly even as his anxiety ticked up to previously uncharted levels; thunder crashed unto the castle once more, rattling the windows to his right and making him jump. 

“All right, all right. I get it.” He grumbled, waving at the raging storm outside. The thing was his experience with rescuing usually involved being the  _ rescuee,  _ not the  _ rescuer.  _ His sword sheathed and new clothes bloodied, he trotted down the corridor in the hopes that he would eventually come across the right doorway.

“Melitele curse my terrible navigation skills.” He grumbled, letting his fingertips brush the wall as he walked. He was hurrying along as best he could, but he didn’t want to become so hopelessly lost that he couldn’t find his way back, and his leg still wasn’t fully healed. He wished not for the first time that he had paid more attention when they’d been escorted to their bedroom on that first night. 

Despite the warm summer storm outside, the castle itself was positively frigid. The stones were damp under his touch and he could feel his ears and nose becoming cold from the air around him. If it was like this all the time, it was no wonder that the lord had such a terrible personality. Lost in his thoughts, he nearly missed the stairwell.

“Thank the  _ gods,”  _ He murmured, quickly descending.

He at least had an idea of what direction to go--the dungeon was in the basement, as any dungeon worth its salt was. And he distinctly remembered the windows being on his right side when Aldwin had escorted him, so he knew he was at least somewhat correct. So until he reached the bottom floor, he could guess how to find Geralt. He only hoped that when he reached the end of the steep stairs, he would be able to fumble his way to his witcher.

He suddenly slowed his pace as he heard low voices ascending the stairwell, still distant but growing closer with each passing second.

_ “Shit,”  _ he hissed, freezing and placing his hand on his sword. He  _ really  _ had no desire to kill more people tonight, but if worst came to worst he was capable of it. He was certain that the next floor below was the ground floor, if he could just make it before they saw him--

A gloved hand emerged from the shadows and yanked him up. Before he could even shove down his shock to let out a startled yelp, the same hand clapped over his mouth and a harsh  _ shh!  _ was hissed in his ear. He clawed at the hand and scrambled for his sword, but that same iron grip clamped down on his wrist before he could reach it. Then whoever had grabbed him pinched the underside of his arm and it took all of his willpower not to reveal himself by shrieking in a positively unmanly manner. Suddenly his arm was twisted behind his back and he was forced to his knees, tears welling up in his eyes as the voices drew nearer.

_ “Do you want my help or not?!”  _ There was that raspy whisper, and realization dawned on Jaskier just as a low rumble of thunder shook the castle.

_ “Mara?”  _ He said, except it came out more like  _ “Mramfph?  _ Because they hadn’t removed their hand from his mouth. He fought back the childish urge to lick their palm. The pressure on his arm eased as they released him and pulled him to his feet none too gently. Jaskier glared at them as he dusted himself off haughtily.

_ “What the fuck was that?”  _ He whispered, all too aware that the voices were still drawing nearer. Mara rolled their eyes and drew twin daggers from their belt, twirling them expertly. They braced themself on the ledge of the stairs and were about to jump over when Jaskier stopped them, grabbing their wrist as panic seized him.

_ “Please tell me you aren’t going to kill them.”  _ While he definitely didn’t  _ like  _ most of the guards, he’d seen firsthand that not all of them were evil and he wasn’t too keen on the idea of even more death in one night.

“No,  _ you fool, but if you don’t let me stop them then they very well may kill  _ us!” Mara hissed back, baring their teeth in anger. Jaskier released his grip and raised his hands in surrender. They disappeared silently into the darkness below. Seconds later, the voices ceased, followed by two quiet thuds. Mara reappeared as they trotted up the stairs to meet him.

“What did you do?” He asked quietly.

“Simply knocked them out, Jaskier. Don’t work yourself into a fuss.”

“I thought you left.” Jaskier ran his hand through his hair, mussing it thoroughly.

“That  _ was  _ my plan. But then I thought of you wandering around these halls and getting lost. You’d get caught. And then they would assume--correctly--that you had killed Campbell. Then I don’t get paid. So, unfortunately, I am here to help.” They explained, the faint growl in their tone never quite leaving. Jaskier had to admit that he was grateful for their assistance, however grudging it may have been; he wasn’t sure if he would be able to complete the task by himself. And he was rather skeptical of Mara’s explanation--their aloof tone said they would rather be anywhere else, but the tension in their brow was eerily similar to the way Geralt looked when he was trying to play off honest-to-goodness  _ caring.  _ After all, they couldn’t have it get out that they had a  _ heart.  _

Whatever the reason, they were here to help and Jaskier was more than willing to accept.

“Well thank you. For returning.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously.” Jaskier nodded vigorously and began to descend the stairs once more. Mara fell into step beside him, dark hair swinging from their ponytail.

“Soo...kill people often then?” Jaskier winced at his own words.

“Kind of in the job description.” Mara scoffed.

“Yeah. Right. Do you, uh, like it? Exciting, I imagine.”

_ For once in your life Jaskier, just shut up. Your small talk has gotten rusty.  _ Oh, and now Geralt was back. Lovely. Jaskier shot Hallucination-Geralt a glare. He was standing at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a sly grin across his face. Hallucination-Geralt stuck his tongue out at him and followed them at a distance. Jaskier had the sinking feeling that he wouldn’t leave until they found the  _ real  _ Geralt.

Mara had just finished saying something, but he’d been too busy trying to ward off his overactive imagination to pay attention to their reply. He laughed awkwardly and hoped that whatever they’d said was worth laughing at.

Their incredulous stare told him that he’d been off the mark.

They reached the bottom of the stairwell and Mara put a hand out in front of Jaskier, peeking around the corner to check for guards. When they found none, they grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged him along behind them. Normally, Jaskier would protest to such manhandling, but he felt it was a moot point to argue with the assassin. They clearly had their own agenda and were not going to cater to his sensitivities.

He  _ did,  _ however, protest when they pulled him into the bedroom they’d entered through. The return could only mean two things: one, Mara was even scarier than Jaskier had originally thought and they were about to make a very poorly-timed move on him (one that, in any other situation, he might have reciprocated eagerly), or two: they were about to exit the castle. When they pulled him towards the window instead of the dusty old bed, he understood it to be the latter. Hallucination-Geralt waggled his eyebrows at him suggestively from the corner. His muse always seemed to manifest in corners, imaginary or not. He wondered what the real Geralt would think of his projection.

Jaskier dug his heels into the floor as Mara pulled him closer to the window and the torrential downpour outside, thoroughly confused and determined not to leave without his witcher in tow.

“Hold on, hold on,  _ wait,  _ why are we leaving? I thought you said you were going to  _ help  _ me, not kidnap me.” Jaskier clawed uselessly at their strong grip, but he had about as much luck loosening their scarred fingers from the fabric of his shirt as he’d had navigating the castle by himself.

Mara turned and glared, looking thoroughly annoyed.

“I  _ am  _ helping you, you great loon. Would you  _ really  _ rather transverse the entire castle using those horrid hallways, or would you rather find an alternative entrance that involves a great deal less walking and fewer guards?”

Cowed, Jaskier pointed at the window wordlessly.

“That’s what I thought.”

Releasing their iron grip on his clothing, they turned and jumped out the window in a single fluid movement. Jaskier climbed out more carefully, mostly avoiding the glass shards still sitting in the window frame. He was out nearly as fast as they were, and within seconds they were both soaked to the bone.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, more on principle than out of any real irritation. The storm had rolled in almost miraculously and he hadn’t been prepared for the possibility of rain. He hoped that there wasn’t a repeat of the first lightning incident, though he had much more control over himself now than he had had then.

Mara led the way around the castle, sticking close to the wall in an effort to avoid being spotted. They walked until Jaskier was certain that they’d just been going in circles for ten minutes when they held out their hand in a silent gesture to stop. He’d almost missed the signal, the rain was so heavy.

In front of them was what, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be a black pit leading into the void. It was covered in a grate and there was a small wall around it preventing groundwater from freely flowing into it. Mara allowed a grin of triumph to settle on their face and crouched, gripping the metal tightly.

“Get on the other side, Jaskier. We need to lift this.”

“Sure, but, erm, what  _ is  _ this?” Jaskier asked as he, too, took hold of the iron grid. 

“Chimney. On three. One, two,  _ three--”  _ Together, they lifted the grate and tossed it carelessly to the ground beside them. Jaskier wiped his hands uselessly on his soaked pants and looked up at Mara curiously.

“Chimney? As in, fire? Aren’t those usually, y’know,  _ above ground?”  _ He pointed at the sky as he spoke, raising an eyebrow.

“Campbell was a strange man, Jaskier. I cannot tell you why there is a fireplace in his cellar, only that he has one.” Mara shrugged. The pair paused and stared down into the darkness. If Jaskier focused, he could make out pale orange flickering at the bottom, but the absence of heat and smoke meant that the fire wasn’t currently lit.

“Well?” Mara said, indicating the darkness. Jaskier felt his expression boggle and he looked at them in blatant shock.

“What?  _ Go down??”  _ He exclaimed.

“Well, what else would you do?” They sounded exasperated.

“Find a  _ door  _ maybe?” Jaskier wanted to shriek at them, but he kept his voice low, just loud enough to be heard over the storm. The wind picked up with his mood. 

“I have news for you, man: every door will be guarded. How many more fights would you like to pick tonight?” They put their hands on their hips, mirroring Jaskier’s own stance. He looked down into the darkness, took in their current situation, and considered the alternative. They  _ could  _ find a door, but Mara was right. It would be a waste of time and energy when they could just as easily enter the basement without any resistance.

“Fine.” He wasn’t happy about it, but there was little to be done, and they were running short on time. Jaskier carefully lowered himself into the chimney. It was massive, a good six feet wide--if he stretched his arms he could just barely reach the sides. He began to shimmy his way down, thanking his rather substantial height for his reach. Had he been any shorter, he wouldn’t have been able to reach both sides at the same time and likely would have fallen. Mara flew past him, rappelling with terrifying speed.

“What, couldn’t spare a rope for me?” He shouted down after them, forced to take his time or plummet an unknown distance. He heard Mara touch the bottom, almost silent in their landing. There was the sound of a little bit of shuffling, probably as they crawled out of the hearth, and then a horrible silence for several moments.

“...Mara?” He called warily. There was the sound of more movement and some faint cursing from the assassin, too muffled and echoing too much off the walls around him for Jaskier to make out what they had murmured. Finally, they spoke.

“It’s not too far! You can let go!”

“Are you sure?” He wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of allowing himself to fall.

_ “Yes,  _ Jaskier. A few feet at most--you need to hurry.” The urgency in that single statement was enough to spur him on, his mind already racing with possibilities. More guards? Something worse?

Bracing himself, he tucked in his arms and removed his feet from the walls, plummeting a significant distance before he landed heavily in a pile of ash. Immediately, fire raced up his injured leg as the ash sprayed up around him in a thick cloud.

_ “Fucking hell--”  _ He choked, eyes watering from pain and debris. He waved the air in front of his face, wheezing and trying to remain quiet as he knelt shakily to the opening.

It was wide and short, and it took a good bit of painful maneuvering to slide out of the chimney. He managed to get one leg, two legs out, and was surprised to find that there was a ledge, rather than the floor. He bent his knees and pushed the rest of the way out of the chimney, screwing his eyes shut and wrinkling his nose as ashes entered his airways.

He stood up blindly, stumbling and using the hem of his soaked shirt to wipe the majority of the ash out of his eyes. He knew that the stuff was likely completely plastered to his clothing, ruining it. Some had gotten up his nose, and his sense of smell was flooded by the acrid scent. And yet, as he scrubbed his face clean with his shirt, the much stronger smell of iron and sweat began to overwhelm it.

When he felt his face was mostly clear of the dust, he opened his eyes and hissed as they stung from the abuse. Squinting, he blinked rapidly, taking notice of the blurry smudge of red across the floor with a sinking stomach. Slowly, his vision cleared, and he followed the trail across the stones to the center of the room. Next to him, Mara shifted uncomfortably, their daggers twitching in their hands.

The trail was long, alarmingly so. Try as he might, Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to look up properly until he had reached its end. The blood had puddled in several places, leaving pools next to the hearth--which he now recognized as a forge--and the doorway leading into the room. As he drew closer to the center, he was fairly certain of what he would find. Still, he followed the path until he reached the largest puddle, a sickeningly large amount pooled under a trembling body.

A  _ familiar  _ trembling body.

Slowly, so slowly, Jaskier dragged his gaze up until he met the hazy gaze of a pair of golden eyes.

When Jaskier spoke, his voice was small and so quiet, he wasn’t sure he’d even spoken out loud.

“Oh, gods.  _ Geralt.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Secondly, I want to thank you all for being so patient waiting for this update. I know it’s been a really long time and if you’ve made it this far I am extremely grateful for you!! Third of all: CLIFFHANGER, BABEY >:)  
> I would apologize, but I’m not actually all that sorry. I’m making a concerted effort to get this next update to you all faster than chapter 12 was. In case you haven’t seen it on my tumblr, I’m predicting that updates will be a bit slower for the next three weeks or so, as I’m preparing to move into a new apartment AND I’ve just adopted a pup. More good news: I’ve finally gotten myself a proper therapist!  
> I know there were a lot of expectations for this chapter (y’all are hella bloodthirsty and I’m HERE for it! Eat the rich!)--I hope I was able to write something that satisfied your hopes! There’s more coming and this is not the last y’all will see of BAMF!Jaskier. We’re just getting started.  
> I also want to thank you all for the lovely suggestions for Jaskier’s horse! I’ve settled on one that I think will fit her personality well. Everyone’s comments on the last chapter were heartwarming and I don’t think I will have time to properly reply to y’all, but know that I read each and every one over and over again because they make me smile!!  
> PLEASE let me know how you felt about this one, I poured my SOUL into this chapter!!  
> Coming up next: Jaskier’s horse gets a name!


	13. Dear Heart, It's Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sudden surplus of bards in his life throws Geralt for a loop. Vesemir continues to cheat at cards. Mara questions why they came back to help the idiot with magic and no self-preservation skills. Aldwin’s just along for the ride.  
> CW: More suicidal ideation from Geralt, murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shoutout and thank you to my beta reader ShyThrush, without whom this chapter would have been a wreck! I seriously would not survive without you <3  
> I made a whole playlist to write this chapter to, so now I’m going to shamelessly plug it [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7DmylVGYZEOppKMM4M5AlX?si=vdXiFfy_R6SAsY_Kxby6Uw) Just in case you wanted some music to set the mood. I’m picturing something between like an 80s-esque escape montage and something a bit more serious.  
> Also between Chapter 12 and 13 I watched The Old Guard (seriously if you haven’t seen it GO WATCH IT) and the final battle sequence in the tower may or may not have affected the way I write and visualize the chase scene. So that was my big inspo for this chapter. Hope y'all enjoy!

His first thought when he saw the dust falling in the chimney was that his salvation had finally come in the form of a freak earthquake. When the ground didn’t start shaking underneath him, though, he was forced to accept that it was most likely some new form of torture Campbell had cooked up to test on him, though it was difficult to discern what chimney dust had to do with pain. Perhaps it was supposed to be more of a psychological thing; it wasn’t the lord’s preferred method, but he was certainly capable of it. With Campbell, anything was free game.

At the first sign of activity, Jaskier had dropped his hand of cards and hastened to the forge quickly, their game forgotten. He even went so far as to stick his head into the opening to check what was above. Vesemir was a little less concerned, content to remain in the corner and discreetly peek at what the bard had left on the floor.

“I  _ know  _ you’re peeking, old man. Leave my cards alone. One would think you might be more concerned about imminent danger than winning a game.” His voice echoed oddly in the chimney. Geralt might have laughed at the absurdity of it if he’d still possessed the strength to do so.

“I can’t see shit in here. It’s too dark and there’s dust in my eyes.”

“Then don’t bother with it, bard. Come back to our game, I was about to win.”

“You wouldn’t know that if you hadn’t looked.” Jaskier emerged from the chimney, looking pristine despite the fact he’d been crawling in ashes and complained of dust in his face. He scowled and brushed himself off.

“Well, since you’ve already cheated, let’s just get it over with. There’s no point in extending my humiliation further.” Vesemir only shrugged nonchalantly and began shuffling all of their cards together. Geralt opened his mouth to remind his mentor that you shouldn’t shuffle two player’s Gwent decks together, but all that emerged from his throat was a dry cough. He closed his eyes and let his head drop back, exhausted.

It had been quite some time since the lord had come down to gloat. Geralt had only gotten respites such as this a few times, so he was taking what time he could to try to recoup. Every so often, a distant rumble shook the castle--it was a familiar sound, but he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was causing it. He knew that he  _ should  _ know, but having the knowledge and being able to dredge it up were two entirely different things. 

Jaskier and Vesemir had only become less helpful and much stranger the more incoherent Geralt got. At first, they’d been able to share things that he might have picked up on his own, but eventually, that stopped and they were content to take part in unbelievable antics around the room instead. 

Sometimes, when it was quiet, his attention was drawn back to that infernal leaky pump in the corner, constantly dripping water onto the floor. It only served as a constant reminder of his thirst, and he’d been trying to ignore it for days.

Geralt thought that he might be losing his grip on reality just a bit, because it didn’t make much sense that Vesemir had suddenly taken to singing jaunty ballads in the quiet hours that they were alone. The new hobby seemed to coincide with his irritation with the dripping water, and he could only conclude that somehow Jaskier or Vesemir had picked up on his thoughts. His mentor had never been a singer, much less a lutist (after all, his fingers were far too big), but since Jaskier had handed his beloved instrument off to the old man there hadn’t been a silent moment. 

His drifting was interrupted by a nearly silent pair of feet appearing in the forge opening, sending a small puff of ash into the air around them. 

Well. That was new.

“Jaskier. Go check that out.” Vesemir grunted, only looking up from his cards for a split second. The bard groaned in irritation but complied, rising to his feet with extreme reluctance. Geralt must have missed when they’d started a new game, but it looked like they were already fairly far into it. The stack of cards had nearly tripled in height and somehow Vesemir’s shoulder pads had made it into the pot.

Jaskier stood next to the forge and tapped his foot impatiently, making no move to interact with the newcomer.

“Well? Any day now?” He grumbled, glancing furtively at the ongoing card game. Geralt wanted to scold Jaskier--the imminent possibility of a new enemy seemed more important than something as frivolous as a card game--but the amount of energy that would require was obscene. Slowly, the owner of the pair of feed descended into a crouch, and Geralt could make out a pair of loose-fitting charcoal gray pants and slightly worn heavy-duty boots. The person was dripping wet, which might be the explanation behind the periodic rumbling he’d been hearing for a while. A storm made sense.

In one fluid movement, the person who’d landed in the chimney slid out of the forge and into the room. For a moment, they stood still, wiping ash out of their eyes. Then they stopped, looked around with a trained eye, and froze when their gaze finally landed on Geralt.

Now, he was not vain by any stretch of the imagination. But the way they looked at him with such abject horror made him question just how monstrous he truly was. Only a beast could garner such a reaction, and the raw disgust on their face was obvious. He knew he looked a bit worse for the wear--undoubtedly covered in blood and ugly injuries. He could see on his own skin the way his veins had turned dark, reacting to the poison in the same manner that he reacted to his potions. It made sense--Campbell’s description had contained many of the same ingredients that he used when he brewed his concoctions, just in much larger and more lethal concentrations. 

There was the sound of a warbling voice from the darkness of the forge, and Geralt’s eyes jerked to its source. He wasn’t able to make out what was said, the sound too distorted by the echo and his own disorientation to be understandable.

“Hell’s bells,” the intruder murmured, hand twitching for a weapon. 

They made as if to approach him, but paused when he couldn’t control his visceral flinch in reaction to their movement. And then came the pity, which was somehow worse than the horror. Then, instead of coming closer, they ducked back into the forge to yell something up the chimney.

“It’s not too far! You can let go!” There was more distorted speaking as if whoever was calling down was too far away, and Geralt could read in the tension of their body that they were becoming impatient, agitated.

_ “Yes,  _ Jaskier. A few feet at most--you need to hurry.”

_ What?  _

Jaskier?

Confusion lanced through Geralt, sending his heart rate skyward. His eyes widened and he shot Jaskier-- _ his  _ Jaskier, still standing next to the forge with a shell-shocked expression on his face--a panicked look.

So this was what Campbell had planned. He knew that Jaskier was his only weak spot. It would only make sense to exploit that now, manipulate him into believing that somehow his bard was there, only to pull the rug out from under him once he’d gotten comfortable. 

He was still staring at Jaskier.

“Why are you looking at  _ me?  _ How am I supposed to know what’s happening? I’ve been here the whole time!” And that was true; Jaskier and Vesemir had never left the room since his arrival. There had been numerous periods where Geralt was sure he hadn’t been conscious, but every time he’d looked to that corner, there they were. Jaskier talked back over to the corner and began to pack away the cards they’d been playing with.

“Vesemir, this is no time for games. Do you know what’s happening?” The only man rose to his feet easily and shrugged helplessly.

“No clue. All we can do is wait.”

“Another one of your so-called ‘Rules,’ Vesemir?” Jaskier huffed, pacing restlessly in the corner. Just watching him was making Geralt tired.

“You know we can’t interfere, bard.”

“But  _ why?”  _ Jaskier countered, looking furious. Before Vesemir could respond, there was a heavy thud in the forge and a cloud of ashes spilled into the room, dusting the floor with a layer of gray.

_ “Fucking hell--”  _ Geralt suddenly felt faint. The voice in the fireplace matched the voice of his bard, standing right across from him. A barking cough came from inside the chimney, echoing oddly around the room. The figure inside knelt and pulled his feet around in front of him before slowly maneuvering his way out of the space.

Like the person still standing just to the side of the fireplace, he was soaked completely through, hair plastered to his head and his clothes dripping into a puddle on the stone floor beneath him. Ash was quickly turning to mud on the fabric and his skin, and he scrubbed at his face with his shirt, coughing heavily. Geralt’s vision was blurry at best, so he couldn’t make out any of the finer details of either person. 

Still, even as he tried to deny the innate knowledge screaming at him, everything about the new person pointed to him being Jaskier. A doppler might be able to steal information, but it was another thing entirely to copy mannerisms and little quirks, like the way he always popped one hip out when he was standing still. And it could be an illusion, but the thing about illusions was that they were always a little bit predictable and usually familiar. But Geralt had no idea what the new Jaskier’s next move would be, and the other figure was a complete stranger. 

He wasn’t sure how it could be Jaskier--he’d practically witnessed his death. By all counts, it made no sense. And Jaskier had been with him the whole time! How could there be another? The only conclusion he could draw was that one of them was fake.

And yet there was no denying that the man who had just descended the chimney bore all the same features as his bard. Gone was the flashy clothing he usually wore, replaced with more muted tones that didn’t hide his impressive physique as well. But the hair, the mannerisms, the voice? Those were all the very same as the man he’d traveled with for two years.

He finally dropped his shirt from his face and looked down at the floor. His hair fell in a wet curtain in front of his eyes, obscuring his features, and Geralt nearly huffed in frustration. All he could do was watch and wait as the man took slow, measured steps around the room, following the trail of red that had flowed from his body in the past days. He gradually came closer, limping slightly, until he was standing close enough that Geralt could distinguish the blurry mass into individual colors and shapes. And still, he stared at the ground.

Until finally,  _ finally,  _ he lifted his gaze.

And suddenly Geralt was staring into the face of the man who was undeniably his bard.

“Oh, gods.  _ Geralt.”  _

From across the room where he was standing next to Vesemir, looking quite affronted, Jaskier spoke in a trembling, high-pitched voice.

_ “Oh, gods. Geralt.  _ Why are there  _ two  _ of me?”

Wait a minute.

Geralt’s thoughts ground to a screeching halt as he registered that there was something not quite right about having two identical copies of Jaskier in the same room. One right in front of him and unmistakably his bard. And another, a stone’s throw away,  _ also  _ unmistakably his bard.

That was a new development. Suddenly everything was confusing, nothing could be trusted. He didn’t know if  _ he  _ was creating these visions, or if it was the more sinister doing of his captor. He supposed he didn’t have long now if things had progressed past the need for one Jaskier into two. He wasn’t sure what the reason was for the difference in wardrobe. Or why the one in the ratty, dull rags trying to pass off as clothing was currently checking his numerous injuries instead of being chewed out by his more tastefully dressed counterpart for wearing such an insulting outfit. Beyond his shoulder was the silent figure, dressed in dark clothing and still glowering.

The Jaskier in front of him, New-Jaskier, was painfully close. Geralt wanted to reach out and touch him, hug him, just to prove to himself that he was real, but he could hardly summon the strength to speak, let alone move. Instead, he remained still as feather-light touches ghosted over his body, the expression of horror on his bard’s face growing more scandalized by the minute. Geralt floated listlessly in gray subconscious to the chorus of  _ I’m here, it’s okay, it’s me, you’re okay  _ ringing faintly in his ears. This close, he could make out the fine lines between Jaskier’s eyebrows, the way his face got pinched when he discovered a new wound.

It was confusing. The bard reeked of distilled fury, which on its own was enough to throw him for a loop. Jaskier was seldom angry, and even at his most pissed, Geralt had never smelled him like this. It seemed that even after two years, he’d never seen him truly angry. But that wasn’t it. No, what sent Geralt reeling was that his bard’s face betrayed none of the anger rolling off of him in waves. His body language was tense. But his voice was gentle, soothing as always. And--well, he almost looked heartbroken.

The mixed signals were making his head spin. For all he knew, everything around him was the elaborate creation of his own fevered mind.

“You...can’t be  _ real.”  _ He murmured, staring deep into New-Jaskier’s eyes for something that would confirm his authenticity. 

And then something inside the bard snapped, some switch flipped. His scent turned sour and mellow like wine turned to vinegar. His face softened even more, and he brushed his knuckles tenderly against Geralt’s cheek. But instead of leaning into the touch (oh, he  _ wanted  _ to, but he just couldn’t), the witcher flinched back, suddenly unsure of everything around him.

Looking almost hurt, Jaskier reached up, his nimble fingers just barely brushing against the skin of his arm, and the pain pulled Geralt from the spell they’d created together.

He had too many questions. The Jaskier dressed in the blue doublet--the one who had been rather futilely trying to provide comfort to him since the beginning--was standing in the corner, looking back and forth between New-Jaskier and Vesemir as if wondering what to do. 

“Why two?” Geralt grunted, still struggling to find an explanation for the sudden surplus of bards in his life. Vesemir rolled his eyes and went back to his card game, which appeared to have morphed into some twisted version of solitaire. His attention was drawn back when he realized that New-Jaskier was speaking.

“Two what? Guards? Are you asking about them?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the mysterious stranger.

“Don’t think so.” The gravelly reply came from the darkness near the workbench. Geralt jolted at the strange voice, a low growl emerging from his throat. 

“It’s alright, Geralt. They’re a friend.” Jaskier murmured, looking sad, before glancing over his shoulder at the person lurking by the forge.

“I’ve no idea what he’s on about. Best be on your guard--maybe it’s a warning.” Then he turned back to look at Geralt, his brows furrowed, and swept his gaze up and down his battered body.

“Gods...what  _ hasn’t  _ he done to you?” Jaskier murmured.

“H’sn’t sung, thank th’ gods,” Geralt said, trying to put a smile on the bard’s face. He was somewhat successful--might’ve even mirrored the wry smile if he’d had the strength to do so, “but y’did.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, looking somewhat amused.

_ “I  _ sang, Geralt?” He managed a weak nod.

“Dunno how y’could f’rget. Said you wou..woun--” he heaved a breath, trying to force his heavy tongue to cooperate,  _ “wouldn’t  _ let it go.”

“I said that?” and now Jaskier was looking doubtful, as if he was just realizing that Geralt wasn’t joking. The smile dropped off his face, and Geralt cursed himself. Fuck. He’d said too much.

“Mhm,” He replied, even as he willed himself not to. It would only upset Jaskier more. And he was right, because as soon as he voiced his agreement, the bard looked infinitely more troubled, biting his lip hard. He didn’t even seem to realize that he was making it bleed.

“He’s worse than I thought. I don’t even know if he’s coherent. Geralt? Geralt, can you understand what I’m saying?” Geralt resented that tone, the way he was trapped inside his own body, confused and hurting. As Jaskier spoke, one of the cuffs came open with a  _ click  _ and his vision darkened threateningly. Everything went hazy for some amount of time and words floated around him with no meaning. He responded with a low groan. 

“Shit, shit,  _ shit.”  _ Warm fingers, shaking slightly, grazed his body. There was the sound of rustling fabric and footsteps--Geralt flinched violently when they came closer--and more swearing from Jaskier. He wasn’t sure which one. 

“Can you help me? I can’t--he’s shaking too much. I can’t get the pin in the lock and hold him at the same time.” His voice was unsteady. Geralt couldn’t tell if he was angry or scared. He realized that sometime between New-Jaskier’s arrival and now, the man had wedged himself underneath his arm and was struggling to both hold him up and pick the remaining lock on his wrist. It would be a lot easier if he would just realize that there was a wheel on the wall, that it was a pulley system. Geralt could help with that.

“Wall--mph,” he huffed breathlessly, lifting his nearly useless right arm to point in the direction of the wheel.

“What, Geralt?”

_ “Wall.”  _ He tried again, more insistent, more breathless. The other, unnamed figure, seemed to understand what he was getting at. 

“The wheel, Jaskier. Look.” The darkly-dressed stranger hurried over to the wall and placed their hands on the wheel, ready to turn it, but then hesitated suddenly.

“This won’t feel nice, you know.” They were talking to him, not Jaskier. Geralt nodded, already bracing himself for what was coming next. That was enough for them, and they ever-so-slowly began to turn the wheel.

While Geralt was grateful for the consideration, he wished they would just get it over with as quickly as possible. He hissed and bared his teeth as he was lowered to the floor, New-Jaskier supporting him from the side. Old and new injuries alike split open from the movement, and he thought he might have let out a pained whimper. He was too tired to care what anyone thought of that. Finally, the chains had been fully let out and he was sitting on the floor, leaning with all of his weight against New-Jaskier’s solid chest. He could feel the bard’s rapid heartbeat against his back, his heavy breathing that had little to do with physical exertion. His neck prickled, instinct screaming about having someone in his blint spot, but the familiar smell of his bard told him that there was nothing to fear. 

He realized that his trousers were suddenly wet, and for a moment wondered if he’d pissed himself. Then he remembered the impressive puddle of red on the floor. The puddle he was currently sitting in. Any other time, he might’ve felt disgusted to be in a pool of his own blood, but there were more immediate concerns to be dealt with. 

New-Jaskier took his hand from where it was resting limply in his lap and began fidgeting with the shackle around his wrist.

_ “Fuck,  _ what is this shit? It’s  _ hot,”  _ He mumbled, a dull click signaling that the other lock had been picked. Suddenly relieved of the dimeritium, Geralt felt a rush of clarity at the same time as everything faded to gray. The absence of the ever-present baseline of pain sent him reeling. He went boneless in Jaskier’s grip, just barely aware enough to hear what was happening around him. There was a clatter that echoed around the room as Jaskier tossed the chain as far away as he could, hissing as if he’d been burned.

“Fuck, Mara, look at his wrists. They’re torn to shit.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Jaskier:  _ he’s  _ torn to shit.” Jaskier ignored their sarcasm.

“Do you know what those shackles are made of? They were hot enough to burn.”

The haze across his vision faded enough that he could make out the blurry image of Jaskier holding out his hands for Mara to inspect. His palms were covered in red, angry burns, and Geralt winced in sympathy. Mara stooped by the chains that Jaskier had tossed, picking one up to get a closer look. Their eyes narrowed and they shot a skeptical look at Jaskier. Geralt felt his heart drop to his stomach. 

“This is dimeritium,” They set the shackle back down, looking suspicious.

“Okay? And?” Jaskier had heard of the stuff before, but what little he knew didn’t explain why Mara was staring at him with such intensity. They stalked over and snatched his hands, scrutinizing the damage and turning them over. Seemingly satisfied, they released their grip and went back to standing at the doorway.

“What  _ are  _ you?” They growled. Geralt was beginning to wonder the same time; dimeritium only had such an effect on magic users. For him, it made sense that they would leave burns. For Jaskier? Not so much.

“Can we not have this discussion now? My best friend is currently bleeding out in my lap.” Jaskier snapped defensively. Geralt carefully filed away the new information to ask about later. Mara took the hint that they should stop asking questions and moved to stand guard, silent. Jaskier returned to his earlier ministrations, checking over Geralt for any life-threatening injuries. Hands were back on his face, brushing his hair out of the way, palming his forehead. Geralt thought he’d adjusted to the loudness, to the too-bright light that had come with the poison, but it was still overwhelming. He hummed in discomfort and closed his eyes.

“I know, I’m sorry Geralt. We’re getting you out of here, I promise.” Geralt sighed and let his eyes fall shut, too sapped of energy to keep them open any longer. He began to tune everything out, could feel himself shutting down in the presence of safety and the promise of escape. 

Then New-Jaskier lifted one of his eyelids and light pierced into his skull. He pulled back violently, growling.

“Okay, okay. I won’t do it again. I needed to check--you’ve been poisoned or something, and your eyes are usually a good measure of how toxic you are.”

_ “Very.” _ Geralt grunted angrily, trying to stave off the sudden nausea from the light. 

“Okay then. Are you badly hurt anywhere?”

“That’s a stupid question, Jaskier.” Mara sniffed, taking the words out of Geralt’s mouth.

“Fuck, you’re right. Geralt, are you going to be alright until we get out? I need you to stay awake.” He cupped his hand behind Geralt’s neck and squeezed lightly, looking for some sign of awareness. Geralt summoned all of his energy.

“B’tter be quick,” He managed, fighting against his drifting consciousness. He couldn’t quite get his eyes to focus on what he wanted them to; they kept drifting sideways. The edges of his vision were fuzzy in a way that indicated a wavering hold on wakefulness. Now was not the time to pass out, he knew. He would wait until they were outside of the castle walls. He could hold on until then. Hopefully.

“Quick. We can do quick. Right, Mara?” There was a noncommittal grunt from outside his range of vision.

“I would say we have minutes before they discover the body and conclude that your witcher needs to be watched closely. So, yes. Quick would be ideal.”  _ The body?  _ Geralt was already reeling, and now there was a murder to add to the mix. He glanced between Jaskier and Mara, wondering who had done the killing.

“We can’t get back up the chimney with him in this state.”

_ “Really?”  _ Vesemir asked with false wonder. Jaskier elbowed him in the side, watching the interaction with wide eyes.

“Do you want them to escape or not, old man?” He asked, irritated.

New-Jaskier shifted his position until he had his hands underneath Geralt’s armpits, ready to lift him.

“Mara? A little help, please?” He asked, sounding strained. They approached warily, not wanting to startle the barely-conscious witcher.

“How?” They asked, observing with a frown.

“I’ll carry him. I need at least one hand free, for my sword.”

“Okay.” They walked around behind Jaskier, and Geralt felt a new pair of hands underneath his arms.

“You need to get in front.” Their raspy voice was much closer now, and Geralt twitched at the volume of it. Jaskier ducked out from behind Geralt and circled around in front.

“I’m going to help him onto your back,” and then, to Geralt, “Can you do that, witcher?” Mara asked as Jaskier knelt in front of them. Geralt managed a weak nod. With no small amount of clumsy maneuvering, he was settled onto New-Jaskier’s back, arms draped limply over his shoulders. The wounds on his chest smarted in protest. He normally would have tried to stifle the noise of pain that escaped him, but he was too focused on staying conscious for his bard to worry about something so trivial.

“Okay. Okay, you’re fine.” New-Jaskier sounded like he was trying to convince himself of that more than anyone else. Geralt allowed his head to fall forward to rest on his shoulder.

“That’s it. Up we go.” Jaskier heaved them up, struggling only slightly under the added weight on his back. Geralt’s head spun with the sudden movement and he groaned.

“Alright. Here we go. Mara, lead the way.”

Geralt registered the sound of footsteps circling around them and towards the exit. He blearily opened his eyes to look at Jaskier and Vesemir as they passed by. They stood in the corner, shoulder to shoulder. Jaskier held a loaf of bread in his hand, and Vesemir was idly strumming his lute. They watched, silent and solemn, as New-Jaskier carried him towards the doorway. Just as they passed out of sight, he thought he might’ve seen them turn slightly translucent, but it must have been a trick of the light. He wasn’t sure why they weren’t following--probably another one of Vesemir’s Rules. He had the sense that he wouldn’t be seeing them again.

It was dark in the corridor, enough so that Mara stumbled over a few poorly-placed stones. Strangely enough, Jaskier seemed more surefooted than them and didn’t trip once. Another thing to ask about later.

Geralt, even in his disoriented state, could detect a slight limp in his gait that he definitely hadn’t had the last time he saw him.

“You ‘kay?” He mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

“Me, Geralt?” New-Jaskier sounded faintly amused.

“Mm.”

“I’m  _ fine.  _ I’m not sure why you would even ask such a question. You should be worrying about yourself.”

“Limping.” He grunted.

“Ah, that. Nothing to be concerned about. I’ll regale you with the story once we’re out of this hellhole.” That was fine with Geralt, so he stayed quiet. Too soon, they were emerging from the dark hallway and into a better-lit room. Torches mounted on the wall flickered and sent spears into Geralt’s over-dilated eyes. He buried his face in Jaskier’s back and felt more than heard his bard’s shocked intake of breath as he spotted who was in the only occupied cell.

“Aldwin?!” He exclaimed, sounding upset. Geralt found himself nodding in confirmation, even though the question hadn’t been aimed at him.

“Fancy seeing you again, master bard. Word has it you’re dead.” Aldwin replied, sounding quite put-together and not at all like he’d been locked in the dungeon for days on end.

“C’mbell put ‘im down here with me.” Geralt said. Jaskier’s growl rumbled deep in his chest. Mara, some distance ahead, turned around with a sigh.

“Don’t tell me. We’re bringing the old man, too.” Jaskier nodded. Geralt smiled weakly into his back, relieved that they weren’t going to leave the poor manservant behind.

_ “Fine,”  _ Mara sounded tired, but not irritated, “but picking this lock is going to waste valuable time.”

“Go ahead, Master bard. I will be fine, and your witcher needs immediate attention.” Jaskier took in a sharp breath and shook his head vehemently.

“Don’t bother. I can do it.”

“Jaskier, your hands are full. How--” before Mara could finish their sentence, Jaskier let go of one of Geralt’s legs and mimicked the motion of unlocking a door. Geralt detected the familiar buzz of magic in the air and there was a metallic  _ clank  _ from across the room. The door to Aldwin’s cell squealed open, and he scrambled out quickly. 

“Jask?” Geralt was confused beyond belief now. He lifted his head to look at his bard, blue eyes inhumanly bright in the dim light. 

“Later, Geralt. I’ll explain everything, I promise. No time now.” He deflected, looking guilty. Geralt found himself desperately hoping the bard hadn’t made some ill-advised deal in order to save him.

Aldwin sidled up next to them, surprisingly at ease given the urgency of the citation. He quirked an eyebrow at Jaskier, still dripping and covered in blood and ash. Jaskier grinned back.

“Long time, no see, Aldwin. How have you been?”

“I’ve certainly had better weeks. Considering the state you’re in, I would venture to say you feel the same?” He replied, his proper tone sounding out of place given their surroundings.

“Gentlemen, if you’re done, I believe we have an escape to conduct?” Mara called from the base of the stairs. Jaskier turned, jostling Geralt.

“F’ck, Jask,” He hissed, feeling several injuries open back up.

“Sorry,” Jaskier winced, adjusting his hold on Geralt’s thighs to something more stable, “Can you hold on at all?” It took a minute for the words to click. Geralt considered, going so far as to flex his fingers and arms. When fire shot up to his aching shoulders, he hissed and shook his head wearily.

“No.”

“Okay then. That’s alright, I can carry you just fine. Just need to be more careful. Nothing to worry about.” Jaskier wasn’t doing a very good job of being convincing. Geralt leaned more of his weight into Jaskier, ignoring the screaming protests of the injuries on his torso.

“That’s a little better, thank you.”

They were about to ascend the stairs when the sounds of angry shouts began to echo down the hall outside. Geralt felt his heart sink as he heard Jaskier’s breathing pick up.

_ “Guard the witcher!” _

_ “He’s dead!” _

Geralt knew that couldn’t be right. He was still very much alive and breathing, despite what seemed to be Campbell’s best efforts. Though he wasn’t sure how much longer that would last, based on what he was hearing.

“And  _ this  _ is precisely what I had been hoping to avoid,” Mara growled, sounding furious. They whirled around to face the others.

“I’ll only tell you this once. Stay out of my way.” Jaskier nodded hastily and backed up several steps, unsure of their next move. Aldwin followed suit, easily picking up on the air of danger that Mara exuded. Satisfied that they weren’t about to get caught in the crossfire, the assassin turned to face the door just as it was thrown open.

“Who are you?!” The man at the top of the stairs shouted, a crowd of about seven others forming behind him. 

“They must be here to break out the beast!”

Mara drew their shortsword, brandishing it threateningly at the crowd on the stairs.

“Leave now, and I won’t be forced to hurt anyone.” They said. Rather than listening, the lead man charged down the stairs, his own sword raised in a poor defense.

Mara easily disarmed him and sent him toppling sideways off the stairs to land on the stones below. His breath left him in a heavy  _ whoosh  _ and he remained on the floor, unmoving. Several more men took his place and quickly followed him down. The next were a bit wiser and remained at the top of the stairs, waiting for Mara to come to them. The assassin answered by ascending quickly and chasing them down the hallway. There were some distressed shouts, some thuds, and then silence. Jaskier exchanged a look with Aldwin, who only shrugged. 

Jaskier looked back up the stairs just in time to see several more guards run by, Mara in hot pursuit and, for all intents and purposes, appearing to be  _ enjoying  _ themself. They didn’t even seem to be winded, and Jaskier was happy to stand back and let them take care of the fighting. There were more pained howls and nothing after that. Mara sauntered down the stairs, gracing them with a mischievous smile and sheathing their sword.

“Coast’s clear. But there are more coming, so we need to hurry.” Jaskier didn’t need to be told twice. He ran up the stairs two at a time, apologizing when the movement elicited a groan from the witcher on his back.

Geralt didn’t recall checking completely out at the bottom of the stairs, but he realized when he woke up as they were emerging from the cellar that he had, indeed, fallen asleep.

_ Passed out,  _ Jaskier whispered, apparently back in his head. Geralt ignored him, which was a bit easier now that he wasn’t physically present and staring him down. The initial adrenaline rush from being freed was quickly waning, and he was fighting tooth and nail to stay awake. But he’d made a promise to Jaskier, and he couldn’t disappoint him now. They were trotting through the castle at a relatively intense pace, but his bard wasn’t showing any sign of tiredness. Geralt thought that surely, he must be heavy. Even Jaskier’s impressive physique, toned and strong from walking alongside him for months on end, wasn’t suited to carrying such weight. Another item to add to the growing list of things to interrogate him about later.

Windows were flying by at a sickening speed, and he closed his eyes to stave off the return of his nausea. It was too bright and everything was moving around him too fast for him to truly process. Somehow Aldwin had joined them, and he was running alongside Jaskier and casting the occasional concerned glance in his direction. Geralt pressed his forehead between Jaskier’s shoulder blades as they turned the corner, feeling hot blood trickle down his arm.

“Think ‘m bleed’n on you.” He hissed through clenched teeth. Something like a pained sigh came from in front of him and Jaskier nodded wearily.

“That’s alright, these clothes are borrowed.”

“B’rr’wed or  _ stolen?”  _ He replied, trying to keep his focus far away from the horrible tearing sensation across his back as the scores from the whip opened up again. Jaskier indulged him with a mock-gasp, sounding properly affronted.

“You would assume that  _ I,  _ the Continent’s most famous bard, would stoop to  _ stealing?”  _ Geralt hummed and nodded into the fabric of his shirt. Jaskier suppressed a laugh at his response.

“Well, I didn’t. This time. These are  _ properly  _ borrowed, thank you very much.” They rounded another corner just as Geralt recognized the familiar  _ twang  _ of an arrow being released from a crossbow.

There was no time to think, only to react.

“Jaskier,  _ duck!”  _ Geralt threw his weight hard to the side as he shouted, unbalancing the bard and sending them sprawling across the floor. Suddenly Geralt knew nothing but pain and the world around him shrank to a pinpoint. He breathed deeply, trying to force the agony down. They needed to  _ move,  _ he didn’t have the time to be overwhelmed by something so trivial right now. The sound of an arrow colliding with the wall and clattering uselessly to the ground assured him that no one had been struck. He dazedly stared at the ceiling, in too much pain to even shout.

Jaskier, somewhere to his right, was not so burdened.

“Mother _ fucking son of a whore--”  _ Jaskier shouted, rolling into his back and clutching his leg tightly. Geralt could make out where he was from the continuous line of swearing. The sound of a large group of men approaching was enough to spur Geralt back to full consciousness, and he rolled onto his side.

“Jaskier--” He grunted, pulling his arms underneath him, pure adrenaline pushing him to new strength, “--we need to  _ go.”  _ Everything around him had shifted from fuzzy to vivid, colors and movement screaming for his attention. He felt his veins burning off a bit of the poison as he was able to put it to good use in a battle scenario, but it was like using the wrong type of fuel for a fire. He felt  _ wrong.  _

Everything was oddly detached, like he was floating somewhere above his own body watching himself react. Jaskier rolled to his feet, favoring his leg and spitting angry words. Then he rose to his full height and drew a sword that Geralt didn’t recognize.

_ Since when did Jaskier own a sword?  _

“‘Borrow’ that, too?” He groaned, trembling violently as he pushed himself up and braced himself against the wall, putting his back to it. Jaskier stepped in front of him, blocking his view down the hallway to the group of soldiers approaching.

“J’skier--” He grunted, vision doubling suddenly. Tingling shot down to his fingers and toes and he had a sudden flashback to once when he’d accidentally brewed a potion with bad ingredients. His body had nearly torn itself apart.

Campbell’s poison was behaving in the way a bad potion might, and he had the idea that he wasn’t going to be very helpful in this particular battle. His very constitution was fighting against the poison’s effects to no avail.

“Just stay back, Geralt.” His bard snapped, sounding fiercely protective. It was a strange switch of their usual roles; Geralt was always the one protecting Jaskier, whether that was because he’d meddled in a monster hunt or because he’d picked a fight with the wrong man at the tavern. Geralt knew that the bard possessed a rather ill-advised protective steak--he never picked fights for his own benefit, but rather for his witcher’s. Something about _ ‘working hard on his reputation,’ _ and  _ ‘I won’t have some grubby villagers who can’t distinguish a ghoul from a wraith ruining all of my hard work.’ _ But this was different, because Jaskier was about to face down at least twenty guards with nothing but an ornately crafted steel blade and his wits. And Geralt was in no state to help.

About a dozen yards away, Mara was fighting off several men at once, holding their own fairly well but definitely not in a position to assist Jaskier. Aldwin, having spotted his predicament, hurried over to help.

“This is unfortunate,” he remarked as he offered his hand to Geralt. He accepted it gratefully, and Aldwin helped him stumble away from the wall, unable to tear his eyes off of their approaching enemy.

Jaskier glanced back to check on him, blue eyes ablaze. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned on his heel, re-sheathed his sword, and trotted to them. He grabbed one of Geralt’s swords, careful to avoid any of his injuries.

“Are you alright? That was a hard fall.” He grunted, glancing quickly down at his own leg. Geralt almost couldn’t take the sincere concern in his tone after the endless hours spent in the dungeon. He nodded weakly, leaning heavily on Aldwin and struggling to stay upright. Jaskier looked skeptical about his answer, but he let it go for the moment. Instead, he knelt with his back to Geralt, ready to carry him again.

“Are you su--” Geralt started, afraid that they would only fall again.

_ “Yes,  _ you self-sacrificing idiot. We don’t have time for this, look!” Jaskier pointed at the massive company of guards about halfway down the long hall. Considering the threat of their imminent demise, Jaskier didn’t seem too concerned about his own safety. Geralt didn’t need to be told to cooperate twice and practically collapsed onto Jaskier’s back. He didn’t even stumble under the added weight and rose easily to his feet, only wincing slightly at the mistreatment of his leg.

Geralt was feeling slightly more alert than before, for the moment. The sudden fear for Jaskier’s safety combined with the impact of the fall had brought him back to reality in a way that little else would have accomplished as efficiently. Jaskier adjusted Geralt’s weight slightly and drew his sword again, ready to fight with Geralt on his back if the situation called for it. Mara finished dispatching the guards that had been blocking their path and finally looked back to check on them.

“Let’s  _ go!”  _ They shouted, sounding irritated that they hadn’t received a helping hand. Jaskier opened his mouth to explain that they’d been dealing with their own problems, but decided to save his breath. 

The group resumed their punishing pace through the castle, Mara taking the lead. Aldwin would occasionally call out directions--the man knew his way around better than any of them, so they yielded to him every time.

A glance outside revealed nothing but pitch darkness punctuated by blinding flashes of light. Every time lightning struck, Geralt felt another dagger make its way into his head. Between all of the other more obvious issues, he’d nearly forgotten about the concussion, but it wasn’t so kind as to disappear. He grit his teeth against the constant onslaught on his senses, determined to stay coherent until they made it out alive.

Finally, they reached a door. Not just  _ a  _ door, but  _ the  _ door. Mara breathed a sigh of relief and went to work moving the heavy beam across the exit out of their way, while Jaskier turned to watch their back. Aldwin bent over, his hands on his knees, panting heavily. 

Mara made a sound of frustration just as the sound of the guards pursuing them could be heard. Jaskier felt his eyes widen in alarm. He could hear well over two dozen men, and they were a meager four, two of whom were unable to help in a fight. He met Aldwin’s eyes and carefully set Geralt down. Aldwin shouldered some of the witcher’s weight as he listed sideways.

Then there was the all-too-familiar metallic chorus of swords being drawn from their sheathes. The thundering footsteps came closer, and then they rounded the corner. 

The  _ thwap-thwap-thwap  _ of crossbow bolts being released drew Jaskier’s attention, and he zeroed in on their target: Mara, who was frantically trying to remove their final obstacle. He watched as the steel tips of the arrows glinted in the air, right on path.

“Mara, look out!” Jaskier shouted, launching himself sideways towards the closest arrow and drawing his sword at the same time. He stretched his reach as far as it would go; the bolt flew into his blade, sending vibrations up his arm and causing it to go numb.

He landed heavily on his side and Mara ducked in time to avoid the other two projectiles. Jaskier scrambled to his feet and stepped to block the approaching men, his stance wide. Fighting had never been his strong suit, but he was prepared to stop an entire army if that was what it took to get Geralt to safety.

Then they were upon him, and he couldn’t afford to think about Geralt anymore.

The men were slow, poorly trained. It would have been easy to take out a few, even for Jaskier. But even the most terrible fighters can become quickly overwhelming in large groups. Jaskier’s heartbeat quickened as he parried the first sword, the realization that his life was on the line finally settling in.

_ Whoosh-- _ the sound was sharp in Jaskier’s ears and he dropped to one knee. Above his head, a sword whistled by harmlessly. He popped back to his feet and kicked out behind him, satisfied to hear a heavy  _ oof  _ as his boot collided with something soft.

The sound of hurried footsteps caught his ears, and he looked towards their source to see three or four breaking away to attack Mara. Without stopping his current assault, Jaskier threw his hand back, fingers splayed out, and swiped it to the side. A bolt of electricity formed out of thin air and launched itself through the rogue men, taking them out within seconds. 

His neck prickled and he stepped to the side to avoid another uncoordinated swipe at his ribs. So focused was he on that assailant, he missed the one coming up behind him.

It didn’t take long for them to rudely remind him that he needed to fight off more than one attacker at a time. He didn’t so much feel the actual impact of the sword as he felt the sting afterward.

“Ah,  _ shit!”  _ He grunted, reaching for his back only for his hand to come away slick with blood. He rubbed it off on his pants, furious.

“This shirt was a  _ loaner.”  _ He snarled and whirled around, stabbing his shortsword deep into the stomach of the man who’d managed to hit him.

Then there was another sting, this time across his already injured thigh.

“Fuck,” he hissed and nearly dropped to one knee again, just barely remaining standing. Every time he took one down, he was replaced by another.

It was blade after blade after blade.

Another breakaway group, this time much bigger, charged towards Geralt and Aldwin. The old man’s eyes widened in alarm and he backed up with the witcher in tow. Jaskier took a deep breath and repeated his earlier actions, this time much weaker. Still, it was enough, and they collapsed just as they were about to reach their quarry.

_ Thwap.  _ Another bolt released somewhere. Jaskier looked over his shoulder in time to see Mara duck under another arrow, this time much closer to its mark. They glanced up and spotted him in the midst of the battle, frantically twisting and turning to avoid the weapons surrounding him.

“Mara!” He shouted over the din of the fight and the storm. A questioning grunt came from the doorway where they were slowly but surely moving the beam, Aldwin and Geralt close by.

“Can you get them out? Hellebore and Roach are tied outside of the castle gates--I’ll deal with the guards and you can--” He cut himself off as he threw his sword up to block a spear with a loud  _ thwack.  _ Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Aldwin lifting Geralt until he was resting on one of his shoulders.

“You want us to  _ leave  _ you? Are you a fool?!” Mara screamed, sweat dripping down their temple as they shouldered the weight of the beam.

“Do you truly want me to answer that?!” He retorted, focused on blocking a heavy overhand blow. The man behind it was even bigger than Geralt, and he had to look up to see his face. Jaskier’s arms shook with his unsteady defense and he tried not to sink to the ground from the weight of the other man. Rolling to the side, he barely managed to dodge another attack that splintered the stone underneath it, sending shards flying everywhere.

He could hold off their attackers until the others got to safety. He was the only one who was capable of taking them all on at once; Mara was only one person, with no magic. And the other two were incapable of fighting, which left matters up to Jaskier. There wasn’t a choice, if they all wanted to make it out alive.

“Fine! But I’m not coming back to save your sorry ass when it gets handed to you!” Mara snarled, finally heaving the heavy beam out of the brackets holding it in place. Jaskier watched as they threw the door open and helped Aldwin carry Geralt out of the door. The last glimpse Jaskier got of Geralt was a flash of white hair and a pained golden gaze, and then he was gone.

Jaskier returned his full focus to the battle around him as the men surged towards the door, determined to catch the escapees. Jaskier closed his eyes; with his witcher and the others out of harms’ way, he could end this fight quickly. 

He released the chokehold he’d kept on his emotions since they’d found Geralt. All of his anger and fear bubbled up out of the bottle he’d forced them into, overflowing into his veins. Cornflower blue eyes brightened to something less human, glowing in the darkness of the corridor. Some of the men slowed their onslaught, catching his sudden change in demeanor. A couple of them glanced towards the other end of the hall as if considering running away.

Then they seemed to break out of their momentary stupor and one of them charged at him. Jaskier blocked his attack and thrust him to the side with little effort, sending him flying into the wall. Dust drifted from the rafters above them. Jaskier looked up and graced them with a terrifying smile, resting the flat of his blade on his shoulder.

“Still interested in a fight, lads?” Some of the younger ones tucked tail and rain, deciding that the battle was not worth their lives. 

_ Careful, bard.  _ He could hear Rosa’s coaching, her warnings.  _ Do not lose control. If you do, you will lose yourself.  _

He only needed to hold them off to keep Geralt safe. Nothing more.

Taking a calming breath, Jaskier reined his magic in until he no longer felt himself bursting at the seams. Still, power seeped from his pores. He could feel it in the air around him, and the guards did, too.

There were still easily twenty left in the room with him. If he continued to fight the way he had been, more backup would arrive before he was finished. If he even survived ‘til then. 

Blood from the slice across his arm dripped down his fingers and his sword. He switched hands and wiped his palm across his pants, mentally making a note to buy Altair a new pair.

He needed a new approach. 

He was hugely outnumbered, but he had magic and they didn’t. He distantly felt a sword meet its mark across his back, and he growled, spinning violently to meet his attacker. The sound that left his mouth was more feral than human, and the man who’d dealt the blow flinched back. Their blades clashed and sparks flew. Jaskier leaned his weight into his sword, pushing the man farther and farther back until he was against the wall. The bard leaned in close, his face twisted with rage. And then without warning, he twisted sideways and wrapped his hand around the back of the man’s neck, slamming his face into the floor. 

Three more appeared behind him. He jumped into the air as one tried to sweep his legs, landing on the offending bade. Jaskier smirked up at him, meeting terrified eyes, and kicked up. The sound of metal scraping against stone grated on his ears, and then he had not one but two swords in his hands.

“Campbell is dead. You’re fighting a pointless battle.” He growled, slashing the man across the chest. He didn’t want to kill another tonight, but they were making it extremely difficult.

“Some of us are still loyal.” someone behind him hissed, sinking a dagger into his shoulder. Jaskier spun quickly, but not fast enough. The hot burn of another sharp edge meeting his ribs was nearly enough to throw him off balance.

_ Enough is enough.  _ Geralt’s voice whispered in his head. Jaskier had to agree. He was tired of this.

Taking a deep breath, Jaskier forced all of his rage into one point in his chest, twirling to dodge a spear aimed at his throat. When it felt like he would combust, his breath coming in short pants, he forced it down to the fingertips of his right hand, into his sword until it was glowing white-hot.

He watched with delight as the eyes of the man closest to him boggled in alarm. He looked up at Jaskier, back down at his sword, and around to the men behind him. His knuckles turned white against the dark leather of his sword’s grip. A droplet of sweat trickled down his temple.

Jaskier fully expected the remaining soldiers to drop their weapons and raise their hands in surrender after his display. After all, it was fairly obvious that he would be nigh impossible to defeat. But the revelation of his magic only seemed to increase their bloodlust.

“This is all rather ridiculous, you know.” He tried, raising his sword and pointedly ignoring the tugging feeling in his core that cautioned him against his next brash move.

“This is your last warning.” He sighed, leveling a disappointed glare at the group of determined guards in front of him. The only response he received was the careful shuffling of boots on the floor, the readjustment of a grip on a weapon. Jaskier took careful note of the hard lines on their face, the misguided anger simmering in their hearts. Lips pressed together so tightly they paled. Trembling breaths, sweat-damp hair clinging to their foreheads.

And he understood, there would be no talking them down. And he’d promised he would protect his witcher.

It must have been only a grain of sand in the hourglass, but for that moment time stood still. 

And then, as if some invisible hand had flipped the glass, it started again. They surged forward as one, holding their weapons at the ready. For one terrible second, Jaskier’s heart froze in his chest and he felt like a hunted deer. Some part of him had still truly believed that they would give up.

Then the frontrunner was so close that he could make out the veins in his bloodshot eyes, could see the piece of meat from his last meal still lodged in his bared teeth.

He acted without thinking. What else was there to do, when he was outnumbered twenty to one and staring death in the face?

He swung his sword in a clean arc in front of him, wide and hard. Blood exploded from the neck and chest of the leader as he fell, his mouth open in a silent cry of shock. And then he was on the ground, his unseeing eyes staring at the rafters.

In his blade’s wake, a wave of pure energy formed and surged forward, crackling. It sparked and launched in uneven jolts across the corridor at lightning speed, attacking everything in its path, leaping from man to man and sparing no one from its wrath. It took out every soldier in the blink of an eye.

But then it was done, and there was still so much unspent energy with nowhere left to go but to continue its path. He watched in detached wonder, staring over the men (bodies? He wasn’t sure, hadn’t had enough practice to know whether he’d killed them or not) as it flew into the wall opposite him. And then the castle began to rumble and shake, and with a jolt he knew he’d gone too far.

It was only then that Jaskier realized that maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ he should start moving. He turned on his heel, the sole of his boot scraping on dirt, and ran for his life towards the open door. And around him, stones fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here’s your treat for being patient while I write a bit slower due to my upcoming move: this chapter was actually almost double the length it is now. I had to split it in half because it got too long for my liking. So in light of that, Chapter 14 will be coming very soon!!  
> Coming up next: The gang finally leaves the damn castle!  
> Comments and kudos are my lifeblood! (wink wink)


	14. It's not fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew deals with the aftermath of their grand escape. Geralt’s in a bad way. And maybe Jaskier is, too, but he’ll be the last to admit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thank you to ShyThrush for beta’ing this chapter! You truly are a blessing <3  
> I had planned to post this chapter sooner, but life kinda did its own thing these past couple of weeks. I’m in the thick of what is turning out to be the move of my nightmares, so I ask that you all be patient as I deal with personal issues; I moved in this past Monday and only since yesterday have I had a half-functioning refrigerator and stove. Let it suffice to say that I think landlords are the devil and my property manager deserves a special place in hell.  
> In spite of all that, I had a lovely time writing this chapter and I hope that it comes through for you all!!

Geralt didn’t want to leave Jaskier behind, but in his weakened state he doubted he would be given a choice in the matter. Mara and Aldwin both knew Jaskier better than they knew him, so of course they would listen to the bard’s foolhardy request over his own more practical protests. It didn’t help that they believed him to be completely delirious. Not to mention that he was a witcher, not to be trusted. He wasn’t sure why they were helping to rescue him at all, besides at Jaskier’s behest. Perhaps he was paying them.

So, with one arm draped over the manservant’s back and the other across Mara’s muscled shoulders, he was all but dragged out of the castle into the torrential rain, his last glimpse of Jaskier one where he was surrounded by enemies with no end in sight.

The rain shocked him to his core. He shuddered violently between his supports, tripping over his own toes as his knees buckled. They caught him easily when his legs gave out from underneath him. 

Being drenched was a sudden reminder that he hadn’t had anything to drink in days. Blearily, he let his head fall back, ignoring the way the cuts across his chest split open from the strain. The rain fell on his face and into his mouth, and he savored the sweetness of freedom.

It wasn’t until Aldwin jostled him gently that he realized he must have passed out again as they fled through the castle courtyards. A part of him wanted to believe that he was fully lucid and present in the moment, but the other, more rational part of him knew that he’d been mostly unconscious for the duration of their escape. He could recall faint flashes of action and Jaskier being better dressed at some point, but everything was fuzzy as if he’d been viewing the whole event through a cracked spyglass.

Jaskier.

They’d left him behind in the castle to face down an entire platoon of guards, just to get Geralt to safety.

“...J’sk,” He grunted, finally finding the strength to open his eyes. It was still dark, but through a combination of his own witcher senses and the poison still coursing through his blood, he could see fairly well. They were outside the castle and he’d been propped against the wall, uncomfortably half-slumped onto his back. Aldwin was sitting next to him, also leaning against the wall and looking like he wanted to sleep right then and there. Mara stood a distance off, leaning against a tree with their eyes closed. Geralt could hear their breath heaving over the heavy rainfall. The surrounding city streets were silent, save for the occasional clap of thunder. Roach and a horse he didn’t recognize were hitched to the lowest branch of the tree Mara was leaning on, grazing carelessly.

“Your bard will join us shortly, I imagine.” Aldwin said without moving. Mara looked up at the sound and yawned widely, stretching their arms over their head. After a few moments of silence gazing critically at Geralt, they spoke.

“They did a number on you, witcher.” Geralt grunted his agreement, taking a moment to look at himself. He was shivering in the rain, still bare from the waist up, his shirt having long ago been destroyed. His trousers were mostly in shreds, preserving his modesty and little else. He felt far too exposed without his armor to shield him from the world. His hand had drifted to rest protectively near his throat where his medallion would usually rest; it had been one of the first things to go. He had no clue where it was now, only that he would never see it again. It would most likely be sold on the black market to the highest bidder and kept as a trinket. The thought alone was enough to make him feel ill; his medallion was like an extension of himself, a symbol of who he was, what he’d been through, the brotherhood he belonged to. Without it, he was lost.

His fellow wolves would be disappointed, that winter when he returned to keep. It wasn’t like a medallion was something that could simply be replaced--likely, he would never have one again. He wondered if he should put it off, send a raven explaining that he’d decided to spend the winter taking contracts at the coast. If he timed it right, they would be snowed in before they could decide to pursue him with questions.

He rolled his head in Aldwin’s direction.

“You...argued with th’t man. I heard.” Aldwin looked vaguely surprised that he’d listened to that conversation, let alone remembered it.

“Indeed,”

“Th’nk you. Y’r a good man.” He wanted to say more, but that was all he was able to muster before his throat felt like it would give out. He swallowed convulsively.

Aldwin opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the ground shaking, accompanied by a rumble far too loud to be thunder. Geralt, disoriented as he was, nearly missed the alarmed look that the manservant and Mara exchanged.

“What--” he made to get up, but Aldwin pushed him back with such force he nearly shoved him into the wall. It hurt but he remained quiet, his eyes trained on Mara’s expression.

They stalked quickly to the castle gates, still wide open from when they’d exited. For an absurd moment, Geralt pictured the assassin as some sort of wild predator, hackles raised and ready to attack or run at any second.

Then, their eyes widened, and they sprinted through the gates back towards the fortress.

Shoving all of his own hurt away to deal with at another time, Geralt shot to his feet. (Well.  _ Shot  _ was rather a bit of an exaggeration. It was more of a stagger, with him clinging to the vines that covered the wall for support. But it was the intent that mattered.) Aldwin was close behind, not going so far as to push him to the ground again but looking a good deal like he wanted to.

“Master witcher, I’m not sure that this is a good idea.” He had his arms outstretched, as if he would actually be able to support his considerable weight should he fall. Geralt merely grunted in reply, too focused on making it to check on Jaskier to bother with such details as  _ good ideas.  _ He made his way to the end of the wall, swearing and growling the whole way.

He rounded the corner and very quickly understood why Mara’s eyes had gone as wide as saucers.

In front of him, nearly obscured by the rain, the whole south wing of the castle was beginning to collapse into itself. And Jaskier was nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck,  _ Jaskier!”  _ He shouted, the name tearing through his throat like a sandpaper. He stumbled forward, removing his hand from his wall and dropping to his knees just inside the grounds.

He’d promised himself he would stay awake, stay semi-helpful until they were safely outside. And now they were. Only Jaskier  _ wasn’t  _ and he wouldn’t truly be able to rest until he was certain that his bard was safe. His bard, who’d come back for him at the risk of his own safety.

Clumsily, with frantic movements, he struggled to rise again. Then there were hurried footsteps, and Aldwin was kneeling beside him.

“Master witcher,  _ please--”  _ He tried to gently hold Geralt back, but there was little he could do without further aggravating dozens of injuries.

“He’s--oh,  _ Gods--”  _ Geralt knew he was spiraling, that there was no logical way he could hope to save Jaskier in his current state. All he could do was watch as Mara grew smaller and smaller in the distance, running to save his bard.

“I’m sure that he’ll be fine, he’s a resourceful man,” Aldwin tried, standing to block Geralt’s path. He stood up again, tried to shove the man out of the way. He only succeeded in overbalancing himself, and Aldwin caught him just in time to stop him from falling again.

Geralt gripped Aldwin’s shoulders as though his life depended on it, watching in horror as one of the walls caved in. Everything around him slowed. He felt sick. Fueled by pure desperation, he sidestepped around Aldwin and took perhaps five or six steps before his knees gave out again. He landed on his stomach with a heavy  _ oomph  _ and all of the air left his lungs. He looked up weakly, blinking through the rain splashing onto his face and into the mud around him, his eyes watering. As he began to prop himself up on his elbows, Aldwin appeared in front of him again, looking equal parts frustrated and worried.

“Master Geralt! Please stop!” He shouted over the rain. Around them, it seemed to pour harder and the ground shook again as the second wall of the castle collapsed.

“You don’t--I  _ can’t  _ lose him--” Geralt choked, his strength finally giving out. He let his arms slip out from under him, falling fully into the mud. He didn’t even care how pitiful the display was. His best friend--perhaps the only man he’d ever cared about outside of the walls of Kaer Morhen--was gone.  _ Again.  _

How many times would he be forced to live through this nightmare?

There was another brilliant flash of lightning above him, and he found himself hoping that it would hit him and take him out of his misery.

And then, in the midst of the blinding light, he saw a blur of red and brown throw itself from the falling rubble, moving too fast for him to make out the details.

But he would know that gait, that shape, no matter how blurry or far away, anywhere.

He lifted his head to see Jaskier slamming past the open door and sprinting full tilt out of the castle, narrowly avoiding the falling stones threatening to crush him. He was covered in blood-- _ so much blood,  _ Geralt thought--and he looked the most frightened that the witcher had ever seen him.

As he threw a final glance over his shoulder, chest heaving, the last of the remaining south wing collapsed. A cloud of dust flew into the air around it, quickly tamped down by the rain. Jaskier stumbled to a halt and bent double, bracing his hands on his knees. Chestnut hair fell across his eyes, his shoulders shaking.

Then he looked up, and his eyes were brighter than Geralt had ever seen them. 

And even though he looked like hell warmed over, trembling violently and pale and exhausted, it was okay. Because he was real, and he was breathing. And Geralt felt his heart sing for the first time in his life.

Because Jaskier was  _ alive, alive, alive. _

And that was all he needed.

He let his eyes slip shut, let his forehead fall to meet the ground, wincing a bit as his whole head ached from too many concussive blows. There were urgent voices, and he was being jostled, and they were too far away for him to understand. It didn’t matter, though. He’d kept his promise. Jaskier was safe.

And so he sank into blissful darkness.

Jaskier thanked his lucky stars as he slipped out of the castle doors just before the stones crushed him. He knew he’d pushed himself too far, and yet he knew he couldn’t stop yet. He had to keep riding the wave of energy until they were all safe. And that meant Rosa’s.

He’d emerged from the oppressive darkness of the castle into the only slightly less oppressive darkness of the summer storm still raging outside. Rivulets of water, stained pink by his own fresh blood and the blood of his enemies, trickled down his arms as he ran. And then he was slamming to a halt, doubling over to catch his breath from the mad dash. His chest was burning from the lack of air and overexertion.

He’d stretched himself too thin. He could see the light through his magic, knew that he’d come dangerously close to overdoing it. He could feel it in the way his fingertips were still tingling, the way his head was spinning. He felt like his feet had been swept out from underneath him, yet he was still standing. 

He wasn’t sure how he’d made it out before he’d been flattened by the collapsing castle, raining down around him like a hellish hailstorm, and he was too afraid to question it.  _ Let miracles be, _ he thought.

He finally looked up to observe his surroundings and found himself meeting the anguished gaze of Geralt. The witcher looked absolutely devastated, like he’d been wrecked one too many times to pull himself together again. He’d fallen in the mud, and he was making no move to stand up, just laying and letting the rain fall around him. And then when their eyes locked, something almost electric passed between them, and he felt his heartstrings tug at the raw relief that washed across his witcher’s face.

Their connection was lost as Mara stepped between them, their hand a warm presence on his back as he continued to take heaving breaths.

“Are you alright?” They asked, sounding genuinely concerned despite how out of breath they were. Jaskier was taken aback by the display, having taken Mara to be emotionally closed off like Geralt was. He’d just decided to snap a snarky reply when suddenly bile was rising in his throat, and he stumbled to the bushes to empty his stomach of its meager contents.

He could almost picture Rosa tutting and shaking her head at him as he puked, remembering her warnings about what overuse of magic could lead to. He could still picture the faces of those men, now buried under feet of rubble. He spent several agonized moments dry heaving before his body finally realized he had nothing left to throw up. His hands blurred and doubled in front of him, and he swallowed shakily. Fuck. He’d truly overdone it, then.

All of his aches, previously muted by the thrill of the fight, began to make themselves known. He groaned and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his completely ruined shirt. He mentally added it to the growing list of things he owed Rosa and Altair. 

Shaking his head, he stood up and cleared his throat, trying to project an image of confidence. Mara stood a distance away, their arms crossed and a single eyebrow raised, both unimpressed and impatient. Any trace of concern had been carefully concealed once more. He pushed his hands through the soaked, bloodied locks of his hair self-consciously. 

Sweeping his gaze over the courtyard and partially destroyed fortress one last time, Jaskier was satisfied to find no additional threats. 

“Alright, Geralt?” He called, looking past Mara to see Aldwin kneeling next to the bloody silhouette of his friend on the ground.

“Oh, shit. Geralt,” He shoved past Mara, heedless of their affronted grunt, and wobbled over to where Geralt was splayed out on the ground. He slid to his knees beside him just in time to watch golden eyes slide shut.

_ “Dammit.  _ Geralt? Geralt, you can’t sleep yet. Come on, you great fool, I can’t carry you by myself.” He shook his shoulder, hoping to pierce through the darkness he was sure was closing in on his best friend. No response, only a rumble of thunder and the continuous pattering of rain on the cobblestones. His voice was shaky the way it got when he knew he was dangerously close to tears, which was ridiculous. Geralt was fine, would be fine. This was perfectly natural.

Raindrops fell into his eyes, blurring his vision. When they got to his cheeks, they’d turned hot and salty, leaving tear tracks in their wake.

“Your witcher isn’t the only one in need of help, it seems.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier spotted a pair of legs wrapped in dark pants. Mara was standing next to him, their voice unreadable. He looked up and managed a questioning eyebrow, wiping the rain  _ (yes,  _ rain, definitely rain) from his eyes.

They looked pointedly at his arm and back and the sting came back full force as he remembered he’d just fought twenty men.

The problem was, Mara was right. He didn’t need to be told he was still freely bleeding from the wounds he’d sustained in the fight. He could feel them plainly enough. And the rain wasn’t helping the situation, washing his blood away before it had the chance to clot. The assassin held out their hand, and he took it gratefully, feeling suddenly woozy.

“Was that an offer?” He asked tentatively, afraid to hope that they would continue to tag along.

“Only if you want it to be.” They replied uncomfortably.

Jaskier looked around. A good chunk of the castle had been destroyed by his magic, the destruction hiding the bodies of men who may or may not have deserved to die in such a manner. There were surely more guards coming. Aldwin stood in the gateway, looking rather lost and waiting for some sort of direction from them. Geralt was unconscious, shivering, poisoned, and still bleeding from at least a dozen places. And then there was Jaskier himself: by no means in as poor a state as Geralt, but definitely worse off than the other two. His entire body felt hot and fuzzy. His head was buzzing and his stomach was still in knots. He knew he’d taken at least a couple of blows, probably still had that dagger in his shoulder. He reached back and-- _ ouch.  _ Yep, still there. 

He’d used too much energy, and it was only a matter of time before he crashed as well.

“Right, then. I’ll be happy to take you up on that. We should probably get going. Geralt needs help.” Mara nodded in understanding, and Jaskier hoped that they hadn’t picked up on the fact that he was on his last leg. He had to keep moving or he wouldn’t make it back to the inn before he passed out, himself.

Jaskier wasn’t sure why Mara was still helping, actually. They’d escaped the castle and he was no longer a threat to their pay, but perhaps they wanted to see this whole thing through to the end. Make sure there were no loose ends to tie up. That sort of thing. Or maybe they actually cared, and they wanted to make sure that Jaskier and Geralt ended up alright.

Aldwin was a bit easier to understand; he had nowhere to go. Jaskier remembered their conversation, though it felt like a lifetime ago.

Surprisingly enough, neither Mara nor Aldwin questions where he intended to take them. He knelt next to Geralt and managed to wrap an arm around his back, heaving him up in a single fluid movement. Mara fell in next to him quickly, taking Geralt’s other arm. And together, they left the castle grounds behind. 

Next to the gate, Aldwin stood with a lead in either hand, Hellebore and Roach flanking him. Roach stood patiently as they loaded Geralt into the saddle, doing their best not to jostle his injuries more than strictly necessary. When they were done, Roach nosed him worriedly, her nostrils flaring at the smell of blood. Jaskier pressed his forehead against hers, rubbing her neck comfortingly.

“It’s okay, girl. We’ve got him back.”

“Not to interrupt, but we should hurry. Neither of you are well.” Mara pointed out. Aldwin looked uncomfortably, and Jaskier realized that they were all probably on the last dregs of their energy. The bags under Aldwin’s eyes spine of days of sleeplessness. Jaskier had the dark thought that it was probably difficult to sleep when you knew there was a man being tortured in the room right next to you. 

Pulling himself out of his stupor, Jaskier patted Roach one more time before backing off.

“Right. You’re right, my apologies.”

“What now, bard?” Mara leaned against the wall, their arms crossed. 

“I’ll ride behind Geralt, make sure he doesn’t fall off. Likely Roach wouldn’t let anyone else mount her, anyways. You two can ride Hellebore. She’s feisty, but she’ll follow.” His stolen mare had gotten along swimmingly with Roach, and together the two were an absolute nightmare. His dapple gray was more mellowed out than Roach tended to be, but he swore they plotted against him when he was away. Stubborn, obstinate, and ornery, they’d tested his patience numerous times in the past week. He’d finally settled on the name Hellebore because it seemed appropriate. Both the poisonous plant and his horse were beautiful, but dangerous. He’d seen Geralt include its leaves and flowers in his potions before, and thought it was rather clever that the horse of a witcher’s companion would have the name of a potion ingredient. 

With only a bit of difficulty, Jaskier settled himself into the saddle behind Geralt and pulled him back to rest against his chest. Beside him, Mara leaped gracefully onto Hellebore’s back and offered their hand to Aldwin, who mounted much more slowly. Jaskier gathered the reins in his hands, his arms wrapped around Geralt, and Roach tossed her head impatiently.

Jaskier could barely see through the rain, so it was good that Roach was smart enough to know where he wanted to go. He set a hard pace back to the Silver Oak; he knew that the jostling couldn’t be doing Geralt any good, because it was setting his own teeth on edge. But time was of the essence, and given the choice between comfort and speed he knew which was more important. 

He didn’t realize how late it was until he realized that the sky was beginning to lighten just slightly to a very dark gray. Folk would be emerging onto the streets soon, and they needed to be settled into Rosa’s well before then. He didn’t have the energy to fend off more questions, or gods forbid, more guards.

Cobblestones blurred into one mass as they made their way down the street. Water splashed around them and rain pelted into his face hard enough that it stung. The storm had yet to lighten up and Jaskier was beginning to wonder if it ever would. The streets were still dark, not even lit by the glow of lanterns inside windows. They were in those strange hours of the morning when nothing was awake.

Jaskier was shivering, but the warmth emanating from in front of him was enough to stave off the worst of what he was sure was shock. Geralt was hot against his chest. Too hot. Jaskier ground his teeth together, trying to fight off the worry that was threatening to take him over. His arms tightened slightly around his witcher and he dropped his head to rest on Geralt’s, his lips pressed against his hair. 

He didn’t realize Roach had come to a stop until he felt a tug on his pants. He startled and looked down, surprised to see Altair blinking up at him through the rain, soaked to the bone.

“Oh. Hey.” Jaskier managed, shaking himself. They were outside of the inn, where the stablehand had most likely been waiting all night. The boy looked exhausted, but relieved to see him.

“Don’t imagine I’ll be wearing those again.” He gestured at Jaskier’s body, indicating the ruined clothes.

“Yeah, imagine not. I’ll get you new ones.”

“Don’t worry about it. Bit more company than we were expecting.” Altair jerked his head at Mara and Aldwin still sitting atop Hellebore.

“Yeah. Not the original plan, but things went sideways.”

“Are you going to get down, or…?”

“Right. Sorry. Long night.”

“I can imagine.”

Mara and Aldwin had already dismounted before Jaskier could even think about his next move. Mara seemed comfortable to hover nearby and keep a hold on Hellebore’s reins, but Aldwin was clearly ready to melt into the wall. Jaskier got the sense that he didn’t do well in social situations.

“Mum, they’re back!” Altair called into the inn. At the sound of his voice, Jaskier realized he’d been staring again. It took so much energy to even move his eyes. Tearing his gaze away from Aldwin, he turned back to Altair. Rosa appeared in the doorway and nodded in greeting.

“Good to see you, bard.”

“You too, Rosa,” then he turned back to Altair, “Geralt should come down first. He’ll fall off otherwise.” He said, releasing his hold on the reins so that it was easier for Altair to reach the witcher. The stablehand looked doubtful, but wrapped his arm around Geralt’s torso as Jaskier went to work getting his leg over the saddle. Mara observed with an incredulous look before deciding they needed help.

“Take these,” they said, handing off Hellebore’s lead to Aldwin before he could reply. They stepped over and stood next to Altair, prepared to take more of Geralt’s weight once he came down off of Roach.

It was a good thing, too, because once Jaskier managed to get Geralt’s leg over Roach’s withers, he started to slip and Mara only just caught him. With a heavy grunt, they shouldered most of his considerable bulk while Altair rearranged him so that he could be carried.

Aldwin was still looking terribly lost. Jaskier decided to take mercy on him and give him something to do. 

“Aldwin, do you think you could help Altair carry Geralt? Mara and I will take care of the horses.” He nodded fervently and took Mara’s place, disappearing into the dark inn. 

The tension began to slowly bleed from Jaskier’s shoulders. The most dangerous part of the rescue was over. Geralt was safe. He heaved a sigh of relief and Mara raised an eyebrow. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. It’s just, I think a part of me believed that one of us wouldn’t see the end of the night.” He looked longingly back inside the doorway. He wanted nothing more than to collapse in bed next to Geralt and promptly pass out for the next forty-eight hours, but there were still things left to do.

“You made it, though. Both of you.” Mara reassured him with a gentle slap on the thigh as they walked past him to mount Hellebore. Jaskier nudged Roach into an easy walk towards the stables.

“Thank the gods,” he murmured, running his hand through his hair. His fingers got caught in a knot and he grimaced, feeling the sweat and grime caked into it. He was long overdue for a bath, covered in blood both his own and his enemies’. He didn’t have to smell himself to know he reeked horribly of sweat and gore. His only saving grace was that the rain had washed away the worst of it.

The storm had mostly stopped, giving way to a slow drizzle and a gradually lightening gray sky. He tipped his head skyward and let the rain fall onto his face, trusting Roach to know the way.

His brief respite was interrupted when Mara tapped him on the shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Of course. Why?” He shot back.

“I’ve called your name three times and you didn’t answer.” They snorted. He blinked, surprised.

“I’m tired. Probably just didn’t hear you over the rain.” Mara looked doubtful, but they didn’t argue. 

They’d arrived at the stables. Mara went ahead of him, leaping nimbly off Hellebore and leading her through the door. Jaskier took hold of Roach’s pommel and dismounted quickly, far too ready to be done for the night. He landed hard on the dirt and his knees buckled, nearly sending him to the ground if it weren’t for his firm grip on the saddle. Roach snorted in alarm (or irritation, he didn’t speak horse) and stepped sideways to brace him.

_ “Shit,”  _ he grunted, resting his head against her side as a lance of pain shot through his skull. Right. Magic. He’d nearly forgotten about his earlier overexertion. Pulling his legs back underneath him, he followed Mara unsteadily, determined to brush his mishap off.

The stable was warm and the familiar smell of horse was oddly comforting. Jaskier fell easily and mindlessly into the routine of untacking Roach. After removing her bridle and saddle, he wiped everything down and hung it all on the stall door. A few stalls down, Mara was wordlessly doing the same with Hellebore. After wiping the worst of the water and the sweat from Roach’s flank, he leaned heavily on the wall and closed his eyes, fighting to stay standing. The sounds of Mara taking their time on Hellebore’s care was nearly enough to put him to sleep then and there.

There was a sudden sharp pain at his brow, and he jerked back violently, his sword already half-drawn before he realized that it was only Altair flicking him in the forehead. The boy had backed up quickly, his hands raised in surrender and his eyes wide. Jaskier heaved a sign and let his sword fall back into its scabbard with a  _ click.  _

“Don’t--you need to be more careful. I’m on edge tonight, best not test fate.” He huffed. Mara stood nearby, apparently finished. 

“I can take care of her from here,” Altair gestured at Roach with a troubled nod. Jaskier smiled faintly and opened the door to Roach’s stall, trading places with him. Altair brushed his hand against the mare’s neck, receiving a halfhearted nip in retaliation. 

“You should see Mum, Jaskier. You look like hell warmed over.” He swept his eyes pointedly up and down Jaskier’s figure, taking in his disheveled state and exhausted posture, not to mention all of the blood.

“Gee, thanks. No need to tell me twice,” he mumbled, staggering to the door. Sometime between their arrival at the inn and now, the last of his reserves of energy had drained. The world tilted and blurred in front of him, and almost without realizing it he was drifting sideways.

“Uh--”

_ “Dammit--”  _ The exclamation was followed by hurried footsteps.

Jaskier very nearly fell directly into a pile of soiled hay before a pair of strong hands wrapped themselves around his arms, holding him upright. He grunted, vaguely registering the dull ache of the grip on one of his cuts. Through half-lidded eyes, he recognized the exasperated face of Mara, much closer than he’d expected.

“You are a fool,” they said, rolling their eyes and slinging his uninjured arm over their shoulders.

“I can walk,” Jaskier protested, lying through his teeth.

“No, you can’t. You nearly fell face-first into a pile of shit, so I’ll be carrying your ass back to the inn.”

“See you, Jaskier!” Altair called cheerfully from where he was caring for Roach, heedless of her irritated snorts.

“Watch the hooves,” Jaskier mumbled, certain that Altair would have an encounter with one of Roach’s legendary kicks before the end of the night.

Then they were outside again, and Jaskier couldn’t focus enough to distinguish individual shapes. Everything blurred together and his stomach turned over uncomfortably. He felt himself begin to pale and knew what was coming next.

He tapped Mara in a panic, trying to hold himself together until he could get them to let go of him. Fortunately, they easily deciphered what his frantic grunts meant, and carried him quickly to an alley to empty his stomach for the second time that night.

“What the fuck happened to you?” They asked when he finished hacking into a pile of trash. He realized that they’d been keeping from falling into his own puddle of sick the whole time, and hummed his thanks.

“Too much magic,” he choked out, spitting onto the ground.

“Ah.” They replied, understanding that he was in no condition to provide a more detailed answer.

Together, they staggered to the Silver Oak, somehow managing to avoid being seen by the early risers. Mara kicked the door to Rosa’s inn open and for a moment the pair just stood in the doorway dripping water and looking miserable. Aldwin waved them inn, sitting at an empty table in the dining room with a tankard of ale, clearly having been waiting for their return.

“Master bard, what happened?” He stood up quickly, nearly knocking the chair over in his surprise.

“The idiot used too much magic. Depleted himself.”

_ “Magic?”  _ Aldwin stammered. Jaskier grinned drunkenly and nodded. His legs gave out on him again and Mara growled, jerking him up as his toes dragged on the floor. 

“Yes,  _ magic.  _ And besides that, apparently not all of this blood is Campbell’s.” They grunted, dropping him into a chair and ripping his sleeve off.

“Hey!” He protested, snatching at the sleeved and pressing it back to the torn shirt.

“Hate to break it to you, but this shirt is a complete loss.” Mara retorted easily, smacking his hand away to get a better look at his arm. He whined and pulled away, but escaping from their grip was as easy as making Geralt laugh. Pouting, Jaskier tried to see what they were looking at. 

“I wouldn’t,” they warned, and he glanced back up quickly. Whatever they saw made them frown, and Jaskier decided that he wasn’t actually too keen to see the inner workings of his own arm.

There was an angry shout from down the hall, and Jaskier jerked to a more aware state of consciousness. He knew that shout.

“--my swords? M’d’llion?  _ Where’s Jask--”  _ Geralt’s voice, muffled through the door, was cut off by a choked grunt. And then came Rosa’s stern scolding--Jaskier’d heard it enough over the past few days to recognize it. 

“Your bard is quite alright. He is with the horses. And if you do not  _ hold still,  _ I cannot suture this.” She growled. Jaskier stumbled to his feet, his knuckles turning white on the back of the chair as he held himself up. He needed to see Geralt for himself.

“Melitele almighty. I did not sign up for this shit.” Mara growled, begrudgingly following Jaskier to prevent him from ending up on the floor. Aldwin raised his tankard in salute, familiar enough with the bard’s antics to harbor some sympathy.

Jaskier staggered down the hallway to his room, one hand clamped around his bleeding arm and leaning heavily on the wall for support. The door was cracked, and he pushed it the rest of the way open to see that an extra bed had been dragged in from gods-knew-where. Geralt was laying on top of the covers, bleeding rather dramatically all over them. Rosa sat next to him on a stool, threading a curved needle. She looked up from her work and rolled her eyes before pointing to the unoccupied bed.

“Sit, you’re next. I remember  _ specifically  _ telling you not to come back with more injuries. Listening is not one of your talents.” Jaskier considered arguing, but thought better of it and sat down on the bed wordlessly, the world still spinning around him. 

Mara knelt next to the bed and pulled his boots off, setting his dagger aside. Then they unfastened his sword belt and laid it next to his dagger before moving on to his shirt. That gave them a bit of pause before they shrugged nonchalantly and used his boot knife to cut it the rest of the way off, leaving him in just his pants and socks. Once he’d been stripped of his weapons and his shirt, they moved to stand in the doorway, effectively blocking the exit. Rosa, to her credit, took their presence in stride.

“There’s fresh ale on tap at the bar. You know where the glasses are.” She sent them a knowing look, and gratitude passed across their face for a split second before they nodded in acknowledgement. Still, they didn’t move. 

Jaskier had watched the whole interaction with mild curiosity, still sitting on the edge of his bed. He got the sense that he’d just missed a piece of the puzzle, but then it was gone and he was more worried about his witcher, anyways. 

Geralt shifted on the bed, not quite awake but aware enough to detect the presence of another body in the room.

“I’m here, Geralt.’ Jaskier called weakly, focusing on not pitching himself forward onto the floor. Rosa reached back without looking away from the sutures she was working on and shoved him onto his back.

“Lay down, bard.” He fell without resistance and found himself staring at the rafters.

“Wh’r my sw’rds? M’dallion?” Geralt slurred, taking in a hissing breath when Rosa hit a particularly tender spot. Jaskier felt his heart drop and the pit in his stomach seemed to grow bigger. How could he have forgotten? He bolted back to his feet, already on his way out the food and forgetting that Mara was still blocking his path.

“Move,” he grumbled, ignoring the way everything was suddenly spinning. He tried to shove past them, but they remained an unmovable wall, placing their hands on his shoulders with surprising gentleness.

“You need to sit down, idiot.” They grunted. He could tell they were trying to make eye contact, but he couldn’t quite force his eyes to settle properly in one spot. 

“But his swords. His medallion. He  _ needs  _ those,” Jaskier protested, his legs trembling with the effort of standing.

“You can worry about that later. He needs  _ you  _ more.” Mara turned him around and nudged him back towards the bed. Jaskier tried to spin on his heel and slip past them when they weren’t expecting it, but then he couldn’t stop spinning and everything was whirling past him, and the next thing he knew the wooden floorboards were pressed against his back. He opened his eyes for a moment and felt sick because everything was still moving, so he closed them again. A pressure against his back, a brief feeling of weightlessness, and then he was laying on something much softer.

“I think I’ll take that ale now. He won’t be moving for a while.” That was Mara’s voice. Jaskier cracked an eye open, fighting the spinning, and found that somehow he’d met Geralt’s golden gaze.

“J’sk? Y’real?” He mumbled, looking almost painfully hopeful. All Jaskier could manage was a nod. Without truly understanding why he was doing it, besides that it just felt right, he lifted his hand to reach across the aisle to the other bed. Their fingers brushed together, and he hooked his own cold hand around Geralt’s much warmer one, lacing their fingers together. And then everything was fading, and the last thing he saw before his eyes closed was a small smile crossing his witcher’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! As always, I love to hear from you all and comments go a long way in providing some happiness in my day!


	15. Hand Through His Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are in and out of wakefulness, and somehow keep managing to miss each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely cannot believe it took me this long to write this chapter! Studio is in full swing and we’re designing a behemoth of a building complex this semester, so I’ve been really busy with that and my furniture design class. BIG thank you to my beta ShyThrush for being so patient with me (<333), and a giant apology to my regular readers for such a delay!  
> We’re getting very very close to the end of this story, and I’m feeling pretty bittersweet about it! This is the longest story I’ve ever written, with the next closest not even half the length of this one. I’m super excited to wrap things up and dust off some of my other ideas that have been on hold, but I’ll be sad to see this one go! I’ve especially enjoyed hearing from you all as I post.  
> As I promised in an earlier note, I will never leave a story unfinished if I can help it. It’s looking like I’ve got about two more chapters to go in this bad boy, and then it will all be over! Thanks to everyone who’s been patiently waiting--love y’all!

The first thing he became aware of was the smell of breakfast foods wafting through the air: bacon, biscuits, eggs. After a moment, his stomach decided to imitate the sound one might expect a rooting pig to make, and then he was rolling onto his side and spilling his guts into a well-placed bucket.

Someone had clearly had the foresight to predict that he would wake up feeling unwell. He wondered who his savior was.

He could see enough light through his half-cracked eyelids to recognize that it was daytime, but he had no clue how much time had passed. Since  _ what,  _ exactly, he wasn’t quite sure yet. Since he’d been awake? The pieces were only just beginning to materialize, a long way from falling into place.

When his stomach was finished expelling its meager contents, he rolled back onto his front and registered that he was definitely in a bed. That eliminated the possibility of being in the middle of the wilderness, at least.

Too much to drink, then? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, and it would account for the way his stomach was still flopping around. Geralt was annoyed, no doubt. Obviously, he’d already overslept a good deal, judging by how bright the sun seemed to be. If he were entirely honest, he wasn’t sure if he was up for trotting alongside Geralt on the path today. That admission would only irritate the witcher more. Maybe Jaskier could convince him to take a day off--he would only have gotten this drunk if there had been a successful contract to celebrate, so it wouldn’t be too hard to persuade him into spending the extra coin on another night.

Licking his lips and grimacing at how dry they were, he realized that his mouth and throat felt like he’d swallowed sand. His head pounded in time with his heart. He could hear something rattling irritatingly nearby, but couldn’t for the life of him distinguish what it was over the sound of his own blood rushing through his skull. So loud was his heartbeat, he was certain that Valdo Marx had taken up residence between his ears and started writing songs. He swallowed convulsively, feeling bile rise up in his throat once more at the thought of his rival troubadour’s squawking.

Must have been some damn night. Maybe that was why Geralt hadn’t woken him up; maybe  _ he  _ was just as hungover. The thought made him smile a bit until a worse and much more likely idea crossed his mind. 

Perhaps he’d already left Jaskier behind to move along, leaving him in bed with whoever he’d happened to end up with the previous night. His heart breaking just a little at the realization that he’d been left behind again, he lazily stretched his arm across the sheets, searching for another body, and was surprised to be met with empty air.

He was more surprised, however, by the sudden bone-deep ache that radiated from the nape of his neck down his shoulder.

He was known to be adventurous in bed, but even his roughest nights had never left him feeling this terrible.

So maybe  _ that  _ was why Geralt hadn’t woken him up. He’d gotten into a bar fight. Judging by the burning at the source of the injury, someone had smashed a glass over his back. Likely he’d been dragged away from the tumult by the scruff of his neck by an exasperated witcher.

He wondered if whatever doublet he’d been wearing was ruined. Bloodstains were a bitch to get out.

Geralt never woke him the morning after a fight, no matter how irritated he’d been the night before. And to make matters more confusing, he would act strangely guilty, as if it had been the witcher’s decision to throw the first punch rather than Jaskier’s.

But perhaps that had something to do with his rather atrocious excuse for self-esteem. It always left Jaskier gaping in wonder when the witcher never raised a hand or even his voice to defend himself from the baseless accusations and insults flung his direction. And, well. If Geralt wouldn’t deal with it, then the least Jaskier could do was defend his honor. 

Jaskier could handle when the jibes were aimed in his direction. He could take a verbal assault from the best in Oxenfurt without batting an eye, so the messy words of a drunk man rolled right off his back. 

He would never start a fight for his own benefit. But he’d seen the minute flinches, the subtle tightening around golden eyes, the tic in his witcher’s jaw when the words  _ butcher  _ and  _ monster  _ careened through the air with more force than a weapon. And it was difficult to watch. Fighting was easier. 

After all, his own reputation rode on the way the public viewed his witcher. And if teaching the occasional bastard a hard lesson about who the  _ real  _ freak was could show them that he didn’t take kindly to an attack on his best friend, then that’s what he would do. 

No matter if they thought he did it because he’d practically built his entire career around the story of the honorable White Wolf. No matter if they thought he was merely defending his bardic repute against the gossip of townsfolk. 

The fact was, he actually did care quite a bit about Geralt, and watching him suffer through the tirades of ignorant villagers in an effort to prove them wrong made his blood boil. Geralt would never throw the first punch because he couldn’t. And wouldn’t. 

But Jaskier had no such qualms and he was happy to make that known. 

The trouble was, Geralt always acted like he was a fool for defending him. Claimed that it wasn’t worth the trouble. Even though Jaskier could tell that he felt better knowing that there was at least one human alive that didn’t despise him. At least one man who would bloody his fists and his face in his defense. 

But then they both had to deal with that fucking  _ guilt  _ that Geralt carried around with him like a safety blanket. That was why he could always count on getting to sleep in if he’d started a fight the night before. That damn  _ guilt.  _

Another wave of heat radiated down Jaskier’s arm and he bit his lip to prevent himself from whimpering pitifully. No point in making Geralt’s guilt trip even worse than it already no doubt was. Even if it was just a tad bit nice when the witcher was soft with him.

His chest ached fiercely. He wondered how in the name of Melitele herself he’d managed to take such a heavy blow that it still felt fresh the morning after. He felt like he’d been kicked by a horse. If he didn’t know any better, he would guess that somehow his heart had taken a direct hit.

And then he realized that he was positively freezing, and suddenly that rattling he’d been hearing had a source; it was his own teeth chattering.

That didn’t make very much sense because it was summer. Yet the way he was shaking like a leaf suggested that maybe he’d slept longer than he’d originally thought and that maybe it was no longer the warm season. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep in a snowbank somewhere on the side of a mountain.

The sound of the door to their room creaking drew his attention, and he focused his hearing on whoever had entered, surprised he hadn’t picked up on their approach sooner.

“So, you’re awake. Lucky to have survived at all, for all of your foolish actions.” The voice was warm, stern. Motherly.

Rosa.

“I  _ did  _ warn you,  _ numerous times,  _ to be careful. Magic is not forgiving and takes no prisoners. Instead of listening, you galavant off and return hours later, your very life force depleted for having reached so deep. I’ll admit that I was impressed you were conscious at all when you arrived. What you did should have killed you.” Jaskier felt sweat prickle on his brow, and he was hard pressed to determine if it was a result of the scolding or the sudden awareness of the way his entire body felt like he’d been sent over a waterfall to be decimated on the rocks below. 

The thought of water reminded him of how thirsty he was, and he licked his lips.

As if she were reading his mind, a chipped cup was pressed against his lips, and something blessedly warm and sweet coated his tongue. One of Rosa’s mysterious teas. He relished the sensation of the hot liquid traveling down his throat and blooming deep in his chest, just enough to take the edge off of the chill he’d caught.

Then, he shivered again.

“It--” he choked. His voice was hoarse from disuse, and he took another long drink of the tea before he tried to speak again.

“It  _ is  _ summer, right?” He asked, hating the way his voice shook.

“Most certainly. To answer what you are trying to ask: your body is having a very difficult time generating its own heat for the moment. The chill will pass in a few days.” Rosa replied, not bothering to provide an explanation. Jaskier could only assume that it had something to do with his overuse of magic, judging by the disapproving clip of her voice.

He’d closed his eyes again at some point, he realized, and had yet to open them again. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He knew that it would only lead to an increase in the intensity of Valdo Marx’s terrible racket in his skull. Rosa’s presence faded slightly, taking the empty teacup she’d been holding for him with her. He whined at the loss and she scoffed, the scraping of wood across the floorboards indicating that she was standing from her seat.

“I will return with more tea. Rest.” And then the door clicked shut. Jaskier allowed a heavy sigh to escape his lips and nestled back into the covers, resenting the way they did absolutely nothing to help him warm up. 

His back hurt, too. And the old injury across his thigh gave the occasional twinge, just to remind him that it was still there. He pressed his face into the pillow and growled, already antsy even though he’d been awake for no longer than a few minutes. His body was giving him every sign that he needed to stay in bed and rest, but his mind was restless and screaming to get up.

He needed to check on Geralt.

There were vague flashes of the last time he’d been awake--Melitele only knew how long that had been. He remembered arriving back at the inn, thoroughly convinced that he’d just been tired. But he’d also been well aware that he’d pushed his body too far--Rosa’s scolding implied that he’d  _ wanted  _ to self-destruct, but he’d had little choice in the matter.

His brow furrowed as he tried to piece together the night. After Altair had greeted him, things got fuzzy quickly. Roach was in there somewhere, and Mara had scolded him for being stupid at some point. The last thing he could recall was the warm candlelight of his room and the way it had lit up Geralt’s rare smile.

Had they held hands?

Groaning, Jaskier turned his head to the side and cracked his eyes open just a slit. Immediately, he was assaulted by too much light and hissed when his headache, mere background noise previously, suddenly pushed itself to the forefront of his awareness. Scrunching his nose, he tried again and this time managed to get a blurry vision of the room he was in.

Things were strewn across the floor, some of them his belongings and others decidedly not. There was a wicker basket on the floor full of various healing herbs and other supplies, unorganized as if it’d been used in a hurry. Bloody clothes were piled on the foot of his bed, and he spotted a very familiar pair of pants, torn to shreds. The room was the same one he’d been occupying before the fateful rescue, only now there was another bed crowded into the other corner and upon it was his witcher.

He looked terrible. His head was turned to the side, facing Jaskier, and he would swear that Geralt hadn’t moved since the last time he’d laid eyes on him. He, like the bard, was lying on his stomach, probably to protect the worst of his injuries from further aggravation. One of his arms was hanging limply over the side of the bed, his hand looking terribly empty.

In an echo of the last moments he could remember, Jaskier reached out and brushed his fingers against Geralt’s, displeased to find that they were still far too warm and embarrassed to admit that it felt nice against his own chilled skin. He wrapped his hand around Geralt’s and reveled in the simple touch as he scanned his witcher’s body.

_ Hell warmed over  _ would be a gross understatement of Geralt’s condition. There weren’t words to describe how miserable he appeared, and Jaskier felt rage boil up in his stomach as he catalogued each of Geralt’s injuries. There were certainly more hidden under covers and bandages, but even the ones Jaskier could see were far too plentiful and cruel. Peeking out from under the edge of the sheets, Jaskier could see the numerous scores across his back from what had clearly been dozens of whippings, angry and red and tender.

Jaskier closed his eyes, feeling like a coward. He didn’t want to see this. Holding Geralt’s hand in his own, too warm but undeniably  _ alive  _ was all that he needed.

No matter that Campbell had gotten off the hook far too easily and quickly. Or that Jaskier wanted to go back and desecrate the lord’s corpse, curse his spirit so that even in the afterlife he couldn’t escape the punishment that he so wanted to inflict.

He’d never felt so vengeful before.

The door creaked open again. He hastily schooled his expression into something that could pass as civilized.

“You passed out like that, you know.” Jaskier looked up in surprise, having expected Rosa. Leaning against the doorframe was none other than Mara, holding a mug of ale and looking much better rested than the last time he had seen them.

He glanced to where he was still holding Geralt’s hand and tightened his grip, feeling oddly defensive in his vulnerable state.

“And what of it?”

“Just an observation.” Rosa appeared behind Mara and they stepped aside to let her in. The innkeeper carried another cup of tea and a fresh roll of bandages. Jaskier internally cringed at the unspoken promise of what came next, already preparing himself.

Wordlessly, Rosa handed Jaskier the cup of tea and he sipped it happily. When he looked up next, Mara was gone.

“Do you know each other?”

“They come around every now and again. I’m always happy for their company.” Something in Rosa’s tone told him not to push too hard for more answers on the subject, so he took another drink of his tea and remained silent.

“They very likely saved both my life and Geralt’s last night.”

_ “Two  _ nights ago, bard. You’ve been unconscious for quite some time.” The news hit Jaskier harder than he would’ve expected it to, and he spilled some of his tea down his chin and onto the pillow.

“Two nights?” He repeated, hoping that he’d somehow heard wrong. He received a nod in response.

“Fuck.” A knowing smirk flashed across Rosa’s face, gone almost before he saw it.

“Mm, perhaps next time you will be more careful?”

“For Melitele’s sake Rosa, will you stop making it sound like I was on some sort of suicide mission? I didn’t have a choice.” He defended. Rosa raised a skeptical eyebrow as she went about setting up to change his bandages.

“It’s true! We were surrounded and outnumbered. If I hadn’t held off the guards, they would have gotten to Geralt. I couldn’t let that happen after everything we went through to save him.” He huffed, casting a worried glance at the witcher across the room and squeezing his too-warm hand.

“Hmm.”

“Believe what you want, but I’m telling the truth.”

“I do believe you.” Rosa said, taking his empty teacup and setting it aside. Jaskier buried his face in his pillow as she began to unwrap the rust-stained fabric around his upper arm.

“Do you know there was still a dagger lodged in your shoulder when you fainted? Rosa chuckled, seemingly unperturbed by how gruesome the image was.

“It hadn’t crossed my mind, no. A bit preoccupied with not being awake and all that.”

“It was very fitting, with your penchant for dramatics.”

“Only the best for my favorite innkeeper.” He choked out through clenched teeth. Rosa arrived at the end of the old bandages and poured warm water over the injury to get the last of it to let go. Jaskier shoved his face further into the pillow and groaned.

“You’re lucky to still have use of that arm. The muscle is all but shredded. Might have hit bone.” Jaskier didn’t know what to say to that. Valdo Marx would have rejoiced at the end of his career. The thought made him shudder a bit as she wiped away the old blood.

Flashes of his last moments of consciousness filtered back.

_ “Wh’r my sw’rds? M’dallion?” _

_ “You need to sit down, idiot.” _

_ “He needs you more.” _

_ “J’sk? Y’real?” _

It was silent in the room, save for the quiet sounds of Rosa wringing out the bloodied rag into a bowl, but it was hardly restful.

“Geralt didn’t have his medallion when we found him.” Jaskier mumbled, his voice muffled by the down in the pillow. Rosa remained quiet.

“And his swords were missing. I don’t know where they are. We didn’t even have time to look.” He started slightly at the firm pressure of fresh linen against his arm. Rosa lifted it at the elbow and wrapped it snugly around his bicep.

“And do you know the worst part? I didn’t even realize. His medallion is so important to him. And I didn’t notice. Not until it was too late to do anything about it.” He bit his lip as she tied off the ends and tucked them in. Then she moved to his upper shoulder, where the dagger had sunk deep into the muscle between the joint and his neck.

“And let’s not even start on his swords. I don’t know what he’ll do without them; his career might be over. What’s a witcher supposed to kill without his swords? He’s had those since he left Kaer Morhen. Do you know how long that is, Rosa? Nearly a century he's had those swords. And because I didn’t look for them, he’ll likely never see them again.” He didn’t realize he was crying until he lifted his head and found the pillow wet with his tears.

Or maybe that was just the tea he’d spilled.

“They’re just swords, lad. Would you rather have made it out with them, or with  _ him?”  _ Rosa squeezed his good shoulder reassuringly.

“I know, I  _ know.  _ But--I just. They’re so important. To him, I mean. Me too, I guess, he’s saved my sorry ass plenty of time with those damn swords--and because I didn’t  _ think--”  _ He bit his lip and shoved his face back into the pillow in an attempt to muffle his sniffling.

After a time, Rosa patted his back soothingly with a heavy sigh.

“Is this truly what you are upset about, bard? Or is it something more?” Jaskier was taken aback by the implication--what else was there to be upset by? Had he missed something? But no, now that she’d mentioned it-- _ was  _ he upset about the swords, the medallion? Certainly, Geralt was. And he was unhappy that his best friend was hurting.

But that wasn’t it, either.

“It could have been him.” He finally said, wiping his nose with a cloth that Rosa held out for him.

“It could have been him. We could have gotten there, and  _ he  _ could have been what was missing. Could have been his swords and medallion in his place. It could have been  _ him  _ that I lost, not his  _ things--”  _ A fresh wave of sobbing overtook him, and Rosa rubbed between his shoulder blades gently as he finally let down the wall he’d been struggling to hold up for two weeks.

“He’s here now. You’re safe. He’s safe. We won’t let anything else happen to either of you.”

The repetitive motion of Rosa’s hand across his back soothed him into relaxation, and the exhaustion of the past days’ activities caught back up with him. The innkeeper murmured comforting words to him and hummed strange lullabies as his eyes slipped back shut. He fell asleep like that, his hand still linked with Geralt’s between their beds.

____

His mouth tasted like iron. 

Before Geralt was even awake enough to register that he was, in fact, coming to, he already knew it was the last thing he desired. But something was different this time, and his instincts were forcing him to consciousness against the protests of his aching body.

The world came back to him slowly. The first sense he truly registered was touch. He would have rather that particular awareness stayed in the depths of his subconscious, but alas, he had little control over it. Something scratchy and light was draped over his body, enough to set his nerves on edge. His face felt sticky and hot, his skin stuck to the fabric of the pillow he’d been sleeping on.

Hm. Pillow. That was different.

There was the pressure of something against his stomach, and finally all of the signals he’d picked up on clicked together to tell him he was lying face down. 

The position brought up odd memories of mud but he wasn’t sure why.

The prickle of the sheet across his back and legs, barely heavy enough for him to feel, was still far too much for his raw nerves.

Something about being in a bed was rubbing him the wrong way, felt dangerous, and at last he put his finger on it.

He’d been  _ cared _ for? 

That didn’t make sense.

With all the force of an angry blow, his hearing slammed back into place. First there was ringing, terrible and nauseating, and then he was thoroughly convinced he’d gone deaf. Because for the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was nothing but silence.

No dripping water. No whispering echoes off of stone walls. No self-satisfied monologues, punctuated with sinister laughter.

He shifted slightly and sighed with relief as the sounds of his own movements made their way to his ears; he hadn’t lost his hearing. That was good news, because he would be out of a job without it. Witchers were useless if they couldn’t hear.

A small whine from somewhere not too far away led him to force his eyes open in spite of the way the torchlight felt like it might very well split his head open. Then memories began to resurface, and things started falling into place.

His arm was hanging off the bed, his hand out of his sight. Across from him was Jaskier, deep in sleep and frowning. As the worst of the pain faded back to something nearly bearable, Geralt realized the reason for the bard’s distress.

He was holding Jaskier’s hand. No-- _ holding  _ was the wrong word.  _ Crushing.  _ That was a more appropriate description of what he was doing. So overwhelmed by the light, he’d clenched his fist around the bard’s fingers, turning them white with the pressure.

Horrified, Geralt released his grip and the lines of his bard’s face smoothed back out. He drew his hand up next to his body, valiantly ignoring the way his muscles screamed at the sudden motion.

Jaskier looked nearly as terrible as  _ he  _ felt. His upper arm and shoulder were both swathed in white linen, and Geralt could make out more bandages peeking out from underneath the mess of the sheet across his torso. Were he awake and aware, he would certainly make a fuss about the atrocious state of his hair, ruffled and greasy. Dark bags sat deep underneath his eyes and he looked like he’d aged years in the time since Geralt had last seen him. He hardly remembered the event, wounded though he had been and only really half-conscious at the time. But still, he knew Jaskier hadn’t looked quite  _ this  _ poorly.

Something that felt suspiciously like guilt settled in his chest and he sighed. His head had been pounding for so long that he hardly registered how much it hurt anymore; it had faded to background noise against his more prominent injuries. Though he was fairly certain that the gashes across his back from the whip were the most gruesome, visually, it was the devilish little nicks that Campbell had painted across his torso and arms that pained him the most. He could still feel the poison burning through his veins; it felt like a botched potion, enhanced and distilled and doing its damndest to kill him.

He was so  _ hot.  _ His arms and legs still tingled insistently, as if he’d accidentally managed to sleep on them. Fire raced up and down his spine, leaving terrible tremors in its wake. His head felt detached from the rest of his body, floating far above him and making it difficult for him to discern reality from illusion.

Luckily, Vesemir and his eternally cursed Gwent games were nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier whimpered again, and Geralt opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) to check that his hand hadn’t developed a mind of its own and drifted back to crush Jaskier’s fingers. But no, his fist was still wrapped in the sheets next to him, and Jaskier was deep in the throes of what appeared to be one hell of a nightmare. His previously calm expression had twisted and he was tangling himself in the covers, probably aggravating his wounds in the process.

Geralt watched helplessly as his cries grew more and more distressed, but apparently no one besides himself could hear it. He tried to close his eyes and fall back to sleep, but his sharp hearing kept zeroing in on Jaskier’s little noises without permission. 

He was hardly in a state to be considering something as reckless as he was. He knew that. And judging by the terrible way his body kept ricocheting between  _ boiling alive  _ and  _ buried in an avalanche,  _ he was sporting a rather impressive fever. A more lucid version of himself would surely have already tossed the idea out--if not because of the foolishness of it, then for the sheer vulnerability of it. He wasn’t supposed to be soft. And Jaskier  _ definitely  _ wasn’t supposed to know that he was soft for  _ him.  _

But that had all been rather blown to bits when Campbell had dared to put his fist in Jaskier’s gut. He would have a hard time denying how much he cared for the bard at this point; with the show he’d put on, all of Redania probably knew of his affection by now. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to keep hiding his feelings. So it couldn’t hurt to throw all of his cards down. 

Hm. Cards. An image of Vesemir on a stone floor popped unbidden into his head, his mentor surrounded by odds and ends he’d collected from Jaskier and other undisclosed sources. 

After all, the very least Jaskier deserved after all he’d gone through was some acknowledgement of his efforts. A  _ thank you, _ if you will. He’d risked his own life and limb--only the gods knew why--to return to Campbell’s dreadful castle and rescue him.

So rather than questioning the wisdom of his next decision, Geralt sat up ever so slowly, wincing and biting his lip to muffle the gratuitous swearing flowing from his mouth.

The world tilted and swam around him. He knew from the throbbing behind his eyes that his pupils were shrunk to pinpricks, despite the fact that it was clearly nighttime. But it was still too much. He felt himself begin to drift to the side and put out a hand on the mattress to stop the movement, not keen on kissing the floorboards.

Across from him, Jaskier had grown fuzzy and was slowly splitting into two distinct visions. Geralt blinked and pressed his palms hard against his eyelids, trying to uncross his eyes. 

Everything was blown out of focus and overexposed. The sheets and curtains glared with the dim light of the fireplace and reflected onto the walls and floor. Why were the colors around him all so damn  _ bright?  _

Poison. Right. Maybe blood loss had something to do with it, too. At some point, he’d stopped keeping track of those sorts of things. What was the point, when he was dying anyways?

Except that now he wasn’t  _ quite  _ so close to dying even though he very much felt like it and maybe still wanted to, just a little, if it would take away the pain. And because he was still alive, the fact that he’d stopped bothering to pay attention to how much of his blood had splashed onto the floor and how much of what little of it was left in his veins had been tainted with poison was a bit of a problem. 

He looked down at his hand and was alarmed to find that sometime between when he had woken up and the current moment, his skin, pale and clammy, had been stained with fresh crimson. The sheets below him were already stained with dried blood, and a bright shock of red in the shape of his palm had been smeared across them. He wondered who he would owe a new set of bed coverings at the end of all of this. Vague, blurry visions of a squat, witchlike woman kept coming back to him. 

There was a tickle on his upper lip, and he brushed his knuckles against it, only for his hand to come away dripping with blood just a bit too dark to be normal.

A drop of maroon splashed onto his thigh and he watched in detached fascination as it flowed down his leg and joined the myriad of stains on the linen.

Nosebleed?

He must’ve moved too quickly. Sent his heart rate skyrocketing. 

_ “Uh, Master Vesemir--? My nose, it’s--” _

_ “Bleeding, boy? That’ll be the potions. Your body is small and still weak from the trials. It will be some time before that stops. Even when your body becomes used to the potions, it’s far too easy to fuck them up, and then you’ll be in a much worse state than now. Here,” A ragged piece of cloth was shoved unceremoniously at his face. _

_ “Pinch it. It’ll staunch the bleeding. And widen your stance, a stiff breeze could knock you over like that.” To prove his point, Vesemir struck him on the shoulder and snorted when he stumbled and collapsed, dust spraying up around him.  _

_ Geralt watched, shaky and awed, as the strange old fencing instructor stalked away to correct another trainee’s form. _

Jaskier whined again, bringing Geralt out of his unplanned flashback. He wondered how long he’d been sitting and staring into the void, lost in memories he wished he could return to. Back then, he’d had no clue of the kind of cruelty humans could possess.

He almost changed his mind to lie back down, so lost in thought and vaguely remembering fierce scoldings he’d taken from the old woman. But Jaskier was making those pitiful noises again and he couldn’t back out now. This wasn’t the first time Jaskier’d had nightmares, but it  _ was  _ the first time Geralt could remember not feeling hesitant about comforting the man. 

Geralt was experienced in dealing with bad dreams.

_ “Fuck off, assholes.” For all of the young man’s posturing, it was hard to feel intimidated when the one threatening you was tangled in the sheets, pale and shivering and a sweaty mess. Plainly put, the poor boy looked like shit. But the Trials had a tendency to do that. _

_ “Do you want to deal with him, or should I?” _

_ “Don’t be a bastard, Eskel. You remember what it was like.” Lambert was still fairly new, but he’d experienced things just as terrible as they had, and much earlier than they had. It was only fair that they be there for the poor lad, even though he could be an absolute bitch at times. _

_ Geralt yawned dramatically, running a hand through his dark hair and grimacing when his fingers snagged in the curls. Eskel snickered as he lazily sauntered over next to the bed to tower over the younger boy. _

_ “Scoot over.” Geralt grunted, not unkindly. _

_ “No. I told you to go away.” _

_ “And we didn’t listen. Now scoot over, or I’ll just push you off the bed.” _

_ “Now who’s being a bastard?” Eskel snorted from the door, trying to hide the way his shoulders were shaking. _

_ “I can hear you laughing! I can hear  _ everything _ now, remember?!” Lambert snapped, glaring at both of them as he shimmied to the side and threw open the sheets so that they could join him. When Geralt raised an eyebrow, he rolled his eyes. _

_ “Only because I don’t want you bitches lying on top of the covers and trapping me.” _

_ “Of course.” Geralt smirked, making sure to press his ice-cold feet against Lambert’s leg as he climbed in. _

_ “Big spoon or little spoon?” Eskel teased. _

_ “You guys are the worst.”  _

A childhood within the walls of Kaer Morhen had left all of the Wolf School witchers well-versed in dealing with such affairs as nightmares.

He’d never acted on his impulses when he knew the bard wasn’t sleeping well. Better to keep his distance, respect the man’s boundaries, even if that meant that neither of them was rested, come morning. But they were far past that now. Even confused as Geralt was, seeing shadows in the corners and colors bleeding together and warping in front of him, he was capable of giving Jaskier the comfort he deserved.

Bracing a hand against the wall, Geralt took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. Before he could think too long on how ill-advised his actions were, he stumbled to his feet and crossed the gap between their beds, his vision graying out dangerously as he neared the end of his short but harrowing journey.

When he could finally see again, he found that he’d somehow made it onto Jaskier’s bed without dramatically collapsing on top of the bard, and even more miraculously, his companion was still asleep.

Geralt’s  _ everything  _ hurt, but he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. Gritting his teeth against the worst of the pain, he threw back the sheet atop Jaskier’s back and wedged himself into the bed beside the smaller man, taking care not to jostle either of their injuries. He would surely be receiving an earful from someone for this, but that was later and this was now.

It was easy to push aside his own discomfort when he had an endgame to work towards. Ignoring the way his sides protested being pressed against the mattress, Geralt threw his arm over his head and buried his fingers in Jaskier’s hair, heedless of how dirty it was. Surely the bard would be appalled, were he awake. The thought of the bard spluttering and indignant was enough to make him chuckle.

Hm. If he was laughing--out loud, to boot--then he definitely had a fever.

Something wet and warm on the pillow underneath him reminded him that his nose was still dripping. Not wanting to completely ruin Jaskier’s bedding, which had fared much better than his own and might still be salvageable, he blindly reached for the floor and was pleased to find a discarded shirt.

Well.  _ Shirt _ was a bit generous, with the amount of tears rending the fabric.

Uncaring of whether the ruined article of clothing was his or the bard’s, he pressed it against his face and pinched his nose to staunch the bleeding. His vision blurred and this time he didn’t bother fighting it, just let the fever drag him back under with promises of the past, his fingers still tangled in Jaskier’s hair.

____

The next time Jaskier awoke, it was because he was warm.

No, actually,  _ warm  _ wasn’t the right word. He was  _ boiling alive.  _

Attempting to roll over and failing, blind panic seized him as he felt something wrapped around his legs, something heavy thrown across his back preventing him from moving. He opened his eyes and was met with darkness so complete, even his unusually strong night vision couldn’t make out more than vague shadows.

A terrified whimper escaped him and he was so consumed by terror that his cheeks didn’t even heat with embarrassment. 

Had Campbell’s men found them? If that was the case, he could count on not surviving long enough to see the sun again.

His heart thumped against his ribcage with impressive speed, his head spinning.

For a moment, he lay still, too terrified to even move. His eyes darted around him, trying to make out something,  _ anything,  _ but he couldn’t even see his own hand in front of his face.

Then, like a switch had flipped, he was able to move again. He flailed about, feeling his arms smack into something hot and surprisingly soft.

That gave him some pause, and he suddenly realized that he was in a bed and his legs had become horribly tangled in the sheets at some point. Next to him was someone far too large and heavy and  _ warm  _ to be anyone but Geralt. No human could actually be that hot without also being  _ dead.  _

Then everything made sense again, and he took a steadying breath as he tried to understand  _ why  _ and at what point the witcher had ended up in bed with him. He still couldn’t see for shit, and that only confused him for a moment more before he saw the light coming in under the door to their room. 

It was nighttime, the torch had burned out, and someone had apparently drawn the curtains shut. With his magical energy depleted, he’d been reduced to human. He wondered how long he’d slept this time.

It was only when Geralt twitched in his sleep that he remembered the reason he’d woken in the first place; he was overheating rather dramatically, an interesting turn of events given what Rosa had told him the last time he’d been awake.

_ “The chill will pass in a few days.”  _

Had it already been a few days? He certainly hoped not, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibilities.

Then he realized that even though he was far too warm, he wasn’t sweating. Meanwhile, Geralt was curled up, his bandaged back pressed into Jaskier’s chest--seemingly heedless of the numerous scores crossing it--and positively drenched. If Jaskier focused hard enough, he could see that Geralt’s alabaster hair was plastered to his neck and back, a few stray strands having made their way onto his own face. He couldn’t see the witcher’s face, as his back was turned to Jaskier, but one of the bard’s arms had somehow ended up behind Geralt’s head, acting as a pillow.

Slowly, he propped himself up on his elbows, distancing himself from the veritable furnace lying next to him as much as possible. As soon as he pulled away from the sickly heat of Geralt’s body, the chill from earlier overtook him again. Ignoring it for the moment, he took in the state of his best friend and grimaced.

Now that he was sitting up, he could see the dried stream of blood that had flowed from Geralt’s nose, smeared across his cheek and chin and puddled onto the pillow below him. Held loosely in his other hand was the shirt that Jaskier had been wearing the night he’d gone to save Geralt, now covered in even more rust-colored stains.

That would certainly be a complete loss. Had he already put the shirt on his list of things to replace for his gracious hosts? Well. It wouldn’t hurt to get the poor stableboy another. Not only had he been more than generous in letting Jaskier borrow his shirt, he’d been dealing with Roach since the bard’s arrival at the inn. It wasn’t exactly like Altair had a surplus of clothing to be giving away.

Across from the bed they were sharing, Geralt’s sheets and pillow were dragged halfway into the aisle between them, covered in blood. There was even more splattered onto the floor. Jaskier was beginning to question just how much of the stuff Geralt had left.

What had possessed the man to cross the room in his state just to be in the same bed as him? A big, selfish part of him hoped that it was because the witcher had needed to be closer to him. 

But perhaps he’d just been scared. Or confused. Or cold.

Not that Jaskier would have been much help in that department. The way his fingers and toes were already starting to go numb again said as much. He wondered if he felt as cold to another’s touch as he felt to himself.

It didn’t matter anyway. Geralt was too hot, and he was too cold, and there was a simple and obvious solution to both of their problems staring him right in the face. So he scooted closer and wrapped himself as carefully around the witcher as he could.

Geralt unconsciously pressed back into him, sighing with relief at the cool touch of his hypothermic skin. And despite the sweat that covered the witcher’s back, the heat of his fever was the only thing that had been able to take the edge off of Jaskier’s chill. So he happily put up with the uncomfortable dampness between them in exchange for the comfort of warmth.

A small sigh escaped his lips as he pressed his forehead against the back of Geralt’s neck, tingling all over as heat began to seep back into his bones. Content, Jaskier slipped back into a dreamless sleep.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of my readers live in California, I truly hope you are safe and doing well. I’m in Kansas and we’re still getting a shitton of smoke here, so I can’t imagine what it’s like there.  
> Here’s hoping you all are well and that you enjoyed the latest installment of C&D! Drop a comment if you liked it! <3


	16. Letters Deeply Worn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt deals with his own internal turmoil as he and Jaskier recover. And though Campbell may be dead, the threat of danger isn’t gone yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finally here! After nearly 3 1/2 months of waiting, I’ve found the time to complete Chapter 16. I feel pretty rusty, after cranking out all of that writing and all of those chapters back at the beginning of 2020 and COVID. It’s been quite some time since I’ve put the pen to the paper, so to speak. Chapter 17 is in the works and you can rest confident that this fic will be concluded before January is over. I’ve kept you all waiting long enough, so without further ado: your story, my dear readers.

Geralt had once believed that recovering from a near-fatal injury would somehow be bearable, with someone to help care for him. He had, of course, been incorrect in that belief on a number of different fronts.

For one, he supposed he didn’t have a very large number of experiences to compare. Not that he was particularly bothered by this. He’d only sustained wounds serious enough to potentially warrant care from another person a few times in his long life. It was entirely possible that he’d never truly been this fucked. But the nature of such injuries was such that he could never quite remember had bad they had been, because often he was preoccupied with other things (like pain, or staying alive long enough to find someone willing to help, or staying  _ conscious  _ long enough to ward off scavengers and monsters ready to eat his body). 

Beyond that small fact, there were other things. Things he’d failed to consider, those times he’d been lying on the forest floor, bleeding out and downing potions every few hours in order to stay alive and dreaming about what it might be like to not be forced to care for his own festering wounds.

Namely, that regardless of one’s surroundings, healing was  _ always  _ hard.  _ Especially  _ when you were trapped in the same room as a restless bard (and of course, even his thoughts had to rhyme. Damn Jaskier, he was getting into the witcher’s head.) Geralt spared a glance at the man sitting across the room, humming mindlessly and staring at the wall.

The first days he’d been truly awake had been agonizing. He hadn’t possessed the energy to be frustrated with Jaskier’s endless shifting and humming and general inability to sit still. He’d been far too busy worrying about things like how much  _ pain  _ there was and remembering to breathe. Jaskier’s constant shifting about had taken on very little importance, despite his relief to see the bard alive.

Saying that Campbell’s poison was damn near the top of his list of “worst things he’d ever encountered” was like describing a drowner as ugly. Sure, the statement was true enough, but it didn’t really get the gravity of just  _ how  _ hideous they were across.

He’d initially thought that he would find some relief once he’d escaped the point at which the poison was practically being fed directly into his veins. After all, he’d been trained--no,  _ engineered-- _ to tolerate scenarios exactly like the one he’d ended up in. But he’d never encountered a concoction as toxic as the one the lord had put together, and even his enhanced witcher genes were having a difficult time keeping up.

Jaskier would scoff at such an understatement.

_ “‘Difficult time?’”  _ He would say, incredulous.  _ “You buffoon, I carried your heavy (and for all intents and purposes, DEAD) arse through the castle in the midst of the most chaotic pursuit I’ve had the displeasure of experiencing, and you didn’t even seem to detect the battle raging around you. A ‘difficult time keeping up?’ When we found you, we thought we’d arrived too late. I had to check your pulse to see if you were even still alive. Every time I wake up, I catch myself staring at your chest to make sure that you’re still breathing. Forgive me for taking the liberty of saying that ‘a difficult time’ would be the understatement of the century.”  _

__ Of course, Geralt knew this because he had offhandedly mentioned how strange it was that his body couldn’t metabolize the poison, and subsequently been on the receiving end of a tirade the likes of which Jaskier had never subjected him so. He’d almost been frightened by the passion with which the bard had spoken. By the time Jaskier had stopped speaking, Geralt was glad he hadn’t been awake and aware enough to remember how Jaskier looked when he’d found him.

All of this was to say that he did not have a pleasant go of it, when he finally did come around to consciousness for longer than five minutes at a time. 

Jaskier’s recovery was surprisingly faster than his own, though it still seemed to be slow compared to the bard’s usual ability to bounce back. Geralt had never encountered a human who had healed as quickly as Jaskier, but the bard never seemed perturbed by his odd healing factor before. The witcher had simply chalked it up to decades of being out of touch with humans. 

When Geralt worked up the strength to ask Jaskier what had left him in such a weakened state, he’d skirted around the question uncomfortably, always offering poorly-disguised changes of subject or promptly complaining that he was tired and would explain it at a later date.

It didn’t take him long to figure out that something was up. Geralt wasn’t stupid, by any means. He knew that whatever had caused Jaskier’s injuries was something he wasn’t keen on sharing. Having been there plenty of times before, he couldn’t bring himself to keep pushing the bard. And he had a sneaking suspicion that Jaskier was afraid that whatever he was hiding would anger him, somehow.

And perhaps he was right. Geralt was afraid to guarantee that he would be able to react to whatever it was in a levelheaded way.

In between nightmare-riddled periods of sleep (though  _ sleep  _ was perhaps not the right word for what he was experiencing--Jaskier would certainly laugh at such a mild term for it), the idea that Jaskier was hiding a secret of such weight was enough to keep him awake for far longer than could possibly be healthy. He could spend hours jumping to all sorts of conclusions about just  _ what  _ could possibly be so dangerous for the bard to reveal.

He desperately hoped that his friend was just being paranoid, that it was something small. Something that wouldn’t tear them apart the way Jaskier seemed to believe it would. But the longer the silence stretched, the harder it was for Geralt to believe it would be something negligible.

Geralt spent his first week of wakefulness like that, thinking himself in circles and driving himself near to madness with the answers he kept coming to. Some of his conclusions were positively ridiculous, but some managed to work their way deep into his nightmares, plaguing him even as he tried in vain to rest.

_ He’s been using me all along, and he’s finally realized that staying on the Path with me isn’t worth the danger. _

_ He sold Roach so he could pay the assassin to help rescue me.  _

_ He was working with Campbell the whole time. This was all an elaborate plot to create fodder for a good song.  _

_ He isn’t real, and I’m still in Campbell’s castle, hallucinating this in my final moments of life. _

“You keep thinking like that, witcher, and you’ll break something. I do not need yet another injury to repair.”

Geralt wasn’t sure Rosa had entered the room, or how long she’d been there. He glanced quickly over at Jaskier to see that the bard was sound asleep, his back turned to them. If he listened closely, he could hear his slow heartbeat and the soft snores emanating from the other bed. 

“I’m fine.” Geralt grunted in response to Rosa.

“You can lie to me all you want, but I have a son. I know what that troubled face means. Stop jumping to conclusions; you will only hurt your own feelings.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Geralt grumbled stubbornly, easing himself upright with painstaking slowness as the innkeeper set down her basket of healing supplies for the second time that day. She came in at least twice daily to change his dressings. 

“You’re worried about the bard.” She wasn’t asking. Geralt allowed his silence to speak for him.

“He will open up when the time comes.” He raised an eyebrow at her as she began to organize her various instruments and bandages.

“I trust him.” Geralt asserted, feeling the strange compulsion to make sure this woman understood that despite his traitorous thoughts, he truly did want to believe the best of Jaskier.

“That much is obvious, witcher.” She huffed, a smirk flashing across her lips. For a moment, the only noise was the sound of a log shifting in the fireplace. Geralt resented the heat it created, his fever still running obscenely high, but he didn’t complain because Jaskier needed it. For reasons that Geralt didn’t understand (and he suspected were related to  _ how  _ the bard had been laid so low), he couldn’t seem to get warm these days.

“Why do you worry so?” Rosa pushed, when she realized that Geralt wasn’t going to continue the conversation. He narrowed his eyes at her, trying to determine why she was so fixated on getting him to talk.

Gods, Campbell had really gotten to him. He was suspicious of an old woman trying to help him work through his thoughts. There was nothing devious in her expression, nothing in her mannerisms that would suggest she would somehow use his admissions against him.

He growled in discomfort and took a deep breath.

“I’m afraid. And if you tell anyone that, especially  _ him,”  _ he nodded in Jaskier’s direction, “I’ll deny it to my dying day.”

“What are you afraid of?”

Geralt huffed. This was starting to feel a bit too much like an interrogation.

“Losing him. Is it not obvious?” He was surprised by his own answer. His eyes widened, and he wanted to snatch the words out of the air before they reached her. But that was impossible, and Rosa’s mischievous smirk softened into something sweeter. Geralt wanted to growl at her expression. It was eerily similar to the way Jaskier would look at him when he talked about Roach or his brothers, and he’d never quite been able to decipher its meaning.

“What?”

“You have nothing to worry about, then.” Her tone seemed to suggest that she knew something Geralt didn’t, and he wanted to roll his eyes in frustration. 

“You know, then? What he’s hiding.” A nod as she nudged him off of where he was leaning on the headboard to undo his bandages.

“I trust him.” Geralt asserted again, firmer this time. He was unused to speaking about things as vulnerable and raw as  _ feelings  _ and  _ trust,  _ but it felt important that he get that point across. Jaskier was the only human he’d trusted this completely in his life.

“You have good reason to. More than you know.” Rosa agreed cryptically, murmuring under her breath as she undid the bandages. Before he could become frustrated with her, his attention was forcibly dragged from the conversation at hand to his wounds. Geralt grit his teeth in anticipation of what was to come next.

As she unwound the outer layers of his bandages, the sting of air on his exposed skin got stronger. He twisted his hands in the sheets, wincing when the movement aggravated the deep tears and burns around his wrists.

Without looking away from her work, Rosa indicated a steaming cup of tea on the side table.

“Drink that. It will help.”

“What’s in it?” Geralt asked, eyeing the drink with trepidation.

“Herbs to help with pain. Willowbark, feverfew, peppermint, marshmallow root.”

“Anything else?” He picked up the cup with a trembling hand and stared into his own reflection, taking note of the dark circles, the way he was even paler than usual.

“Green tea.” She offered.

“Sedatives.” He frowned. Her grin faded slightly, warring with what Geralt was afraid was pity. He didn’t want pity.

“Not  _ just  _ sedatives. Though that is an effect of many of the ingredients, yes.”

“Hmm.”

Rosa paused, sensing his hesitation.

“Witcher, I have seen the marks on your body--old and new. I’ve bandaged your wounds. I know I only have an inkling of what you have been through. But it is not hard to tell what happened to you, and I can assure you this: I would not poison you, lad. I am not Campbell.”

Geralt knew this, of course. But knowing and believing were two very different things. It was hard to trust someone he’d just met, days after escaping from the hands of a madman intent on putting him through hell.

“I’ll not force you to drink it. But it  _ will  _ help.” She urged, returning to her ministrations. Her murmuring started again as she gently separated the linen from his skin, doing her best not to pull on the parts that had dried.

Geralt saw stars as she removed the last of the dressings across his back, and took a sharp breath through his nose to prevent himself from crying out.

If Rosa noticed, she didn’t say anything. Geralt appreciated it; the more quickly she could get this over with, the less time he had to spend trying to stay quiet enough to not wake Jaskier.

“I care about him too much to let whatever has happened to him come between us. I wish I could tell him that, without scaring him into shutting down. I want to give him reason not to be scared.” Geralt mumbled, his voice drawn thin with tension. The old woman seemed mildly surprised that he had suddenly decided to open up, but she took the change in stride and stayed silent.

“Do you think he trusts me?” He asked, his question breaking off in a hiss as she dabbed warm water steeped with healing herbs over his injuries. The solution was probably the only thing staving off a slew of infections, but it hurt like a  _ bitch. _

“What makes you ask that?” She sounded confused. Geralt caught a glimpse of a red-stained cloth as she set it down on the edge of the bed.

“Why else would he keep secrets? It’s clear he’s afraid. I can think of only one reason for it. Is it because he’s afraid of  _ me?”  _ The very thought nearly sent him spiraling into despair. Had he done something, said something wrong when Jaskier had rescued him? Something so terrible that he’d finally frightened the bard away for good?

There were so many gaps in his memories, gray masses in between blurry bright shocks of color and pain. The last thing he could see clearly before things became so fuzzy he couldn’t make them out was Jaskier’s expression of absolute shock upon finding him in Campbell’s dungeon. Everything after that was nigh impossible to make out. 

Probably something to do with the whole ‘dying’ thing Jaskier kept mentioning.

What had happened during those gaps?

He remembered feeling panic. Becoming separated from the bard at some point. Had he run away, abandoned Jaskier to die at the hands of Campbell’s men? Had he turned on his rescuers in his fevered state, attacked them?

He couldn’t put any of the scenarios outside the realm of possibilities. Not when he couldn’t remember anything. He was a monster, after all. The eternity he’d spent with Campbell had proven that much.

For what other reason would a man go to such lengths to hurt him, if that wasn’t the case? And the lord certainly wasn’t the only one who believed it. Could the majority of the human population really be wrong about him?

Why would every human he met believe he was an abomination, if it wasn’t at least a little bit true?

“--are you listening to me?” Rosa’s voice suddenly cut through. He startled violently, slamming his freshly bandaged head into the corner of the headboard. His vision blacked out momentarily and he wanted to roll his eyes. His brothers would probably be laughing if they could see his state.

He felt himself begin to go limp and knew he was on the verge of passing out again, the brief but intense movement enough to send his exhausted body into shutdown. Unable to move, he observed distantly as Rosa began mumbling to herself again in a language he thought he might recognize if he was more aware.

Through half-closed eyes, he saw his world tilt around him until he was gazing up at the ceiling. Frustrated murmuring from Rosa, something about  _ tore those open again, doesn’t look like it needs stitches. _ Wrinkled hands ghosted across his body, taking note of the new blood smeared across the sheets.

“The point is to keep the blood  _ inside  _ of you, witcher. I’ll need to deal with these now. You rest.” Geralt was able to make out her indicating gesture at his legs through his dimming vision, and could feel the hot flow of blood from wounds torn open.

As blackness encroached, he realized that the heartbeat across the room was now quite rapid, and the snoring coming from Jaskier’s bed had stopped a long time ago.

__

___

When Geralt returned to his senses, he’d been turned on his side again and Rosa was nowhere to be seen. But the blood he’d spilled earlier still smelled fresh, so it couldn’t have been too long since he’d fainted.

Jaskier had woken up.

The thought jolted him further into awareness, and he blinked his eyes open, squinting when the light of the midday sun coming through the curtains assaulted him. He wondered how much time he’d lost at Campbells; the sun was a good deal lower in the sky than he remembered it being. It was late in the season, perhaps already autumn.

Fresh bandages had been applied to all of his injuries and the tea from earlier sat on the side table, long since gone cold. He shifted his focus from the abandoned cup to what was slightly beyond it: Jaskier.

He was shocked when his gaze met the clear blue of his bard’s open eyes, watery with emotion. 

It would have been too convenient for him to have fallen back asleep. Then perhaps he would have been able to avoid the inevitable conversation for just a few more hours. Even better would have been if he’d simply imagined that Jaskier had awoken in the first place, but the evidence for the contrary was staring directly into his soul. 

For a while, they just stared at each other, too afraid to break the uneasy silence.

“How long were you awake?” Geralt ventured, trying not to sound defensive. Had Rosa known when he’d stirred, and continued her conversation with him?

She seemed too kind to keep him talking about matters he kept close to his heart if she’d known Jaskier was awake. That would be a cruel thing to do. Geralt somehow doubted that she’d had any hidden intentions, malicious or not. And both Rosa and himself had been preoccupied with her healing activities to be worried about whether or not their companion was sleeping.

_ “You’re  _ afraid of losing  _ me?”  _ The bard spoke, his voice still rough from sleep.

Ah. So he’d been awake more than long enough, then. Geralt sighed heavily. Better to deal with it now, then, instead of putting it off.

“Of course.”

_ “Why?”  _ Geralt couldn’t understand why he sounded so incredibly shocked. He thought that any of the dozens of reasons for his darkest fear would be obvious, after their harrowing experience with the crazed lord.

“Jaskier, do you truly need me to answer that question?” He sighed, exhausted and hurting and very much not capable of carrying on this conversation for long.

“Well, yes? I could probably guess, but I thought we’d moved past the  _ Jaskier-tries-to-interpret-Geralt’s-monosyllabic-grunts  _ part of our relationship.”

Geralt felt his lips quirk up into a small smile and resisted the urge to run an exhausted hand over his face; Jaskier was right, and he didn’t deserve to be blown off. The truth was, the witcher was afraid of how much he cared for the bard. Of how much trust and faith he placed in someone that had been in his life for a relatively short time.

Two years, up against a lifetime of reasons for why he  _ shouldn’t  _ trust a human. If Vesemir’s warnings weren’t enough, then 82 years of being on the receiving end of boundless hatred and disgust should have been sufficient.

Yet here he was. And it was hard to argue with the mounting pile of evidence that  _ he-- _ the witcher who might have once sworn that he would never become close to  _ anyone-- _ had somehow, beyond all reason, made a friend. A human friend. Best friend, perhaps. Though logically, anyone’s only best friend was also their best friend by the nature of having no competition.

“Well?” Jaskier ventured, uncomfortable in the silence. Geralt startled at the sound. Since Campbell, he’d found himself drifting off in the middle of conversations more often than he would have liked. He scrambled to remember where they had left off.

“You are the only human who has ever cared.”

Jaskier’s brow wrinkled.

“Surely not. You’re telling me that no human has ever healed you? No one has ever thanked you for your work? Anything of the sort?”

This was exactly what Geralt had been hoping to avoid explaining. It was a complicated set of reasons, and he wasn’t sure that anyone who hadn’t experienced it firsthand would understand. His brothers could very well be the only ones who truly did. He took a deep breath.

“Of course, there have been times I’ve been healed. Thanked. But it’s not me they really care about, Jaskier. It’s the witcher.”

Only then did it seem to click.

“--and when they’re done with you, they only want to see you gone. Once you’ve finished your job, killed the monster--they want you to leave immediately. You’re a tool.” Jaskier finished, looking troubled.

Hearing it spoken by someone else was something of a kick in the chest. Geralt had always known it to be true, even been warned--numerous times--by his mentors. But to have it put so bluntly after experiencing days ago just how much humans hated his kind?

It was a lot to handle.

Jaskier must have noticed his sudden change in demeanor, because moments after the words left his mouth, he was scrambling to backtrack.

“Whoa, hold on now--Geralt,  _ Geralt,  _ I didn’t mean that  _ I-- _ please don’t do the thing you do when you just retreat into yourself--” Geralt held up a hand with considerable effort.

“It’s fine, Jaskier. You’re right,” he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, “it’s just a bit much. Right now. After...everything.”

Jaskier fell silent after that. Maybe he was giving him time to process that bit. Or maybe he was just thinking. Feeling somewhat compelled to fill the growing silence, Geralt rambled on. 

“You’re the only one who’s ever given a single shit. And you’ve stuck by my side for two years now. Jaskier, that’s longer than anyone else, by a good stretch. And you seem to  _ enjoy  _ my company, to boot. You haven’t tried to change me to fit your expectations, and your patience with my temper is more than I deserve.” Geralt stopped, unsure where he was going with his little speech.

Jaskier looked astonished. Very rarely did Geralt open up, and it was usually after numerous ales and a long hunt that he was able to pry anything personal out of his witcher. For it to be volunteered like this? It was unprecedented.

“You don’t need to worry that I’ll leave you.” The bard asserted, almost aggressively. 

Geralt shot him a somewhat doubtful glance, but didn’t argue. Jaskier supposed that it was the best he could hope for, at the moment.

“You’re worried that I’m keeping secrets.” He murmured, so quietly that he wasn’t sure if Geralt would understand what he’d said. The witcher didn’t respond, but the sudden tension in his shoulders told Jaskier that he’d heard it.

“I  _ will  _ tell you. I just need time. We both do.”

For a long time, there was no response. But finally, Geralt nodded, and Jaskier was satisfied that some of the tension suffocating them had dissipated.

___

After another few days of endless shivering and chattering teeth, Jaskier’s body finally seemed to kick into high gear. His color returned and the fireplace didn’t need to be stoked up quite so often, to Geralt’s infinite relief.

Meanwhile, Geralt’s wounds seemed insistent on hanging around as long as possible, thanks to Campbell’s concoction. Rosa was happy to try and help where she could, but without knowing the contents of the poison, it was extremely risky to attempt an antidote. Geralt did his best to remember  _ what,  _ exactly, the lord had put in his commissioned toxin, but his memory was fuzzy at best. 

“Nightshade...that one for sure. And maybe--Angel’s Trumpet? There was something else, too, but fuck if I can remember it.” He muttered.

“And you’re  _ certain  _ it was Angel’s Trumpet?”

“No.” Geralt leveled Rosa with a glare that he hoped said  _ why the fuck would I be certain?  _

She seemed to get his point.

“It might be possible to create an antidote. I could reverse the effects if I can find the proper plants. But it would be very risky. If you remember the wrong things, it could backfire.”

“What plants?” Jaskier’s curiosity finally got the better of him and he stopped pretending to be interested in his lute, his fingers stilling on the strings. Midafternoon sunlight streamed through the dusty windowpanes, washing the room in warmth. The fire had burned down to red coals shimmering in the ashes.

“The ones in the poison, lad.” Rosa replied without looking up from her work. Geralt was sitting on the edge of the bed, the old witch facing him as she worked on the myriad of cuts Campbell had left on his chest. They still looked nearly fresh, despite being over a week old. Jaskier’s face paled at her statement and he swallowed hard.

“And what if it goes wrong? What if you mess up--?” Wouldn’t that put Geralt in a worse state than he’s already in?” He asked, unsure about the merits of an antidote.

“Of course that is possible, if something goes wrong. It’s certainly not the most advisable course of action, but with the authorities on your tail, it might be a better option than capture.” Rosa said nonchalantly. Geralt made quick eye contact with Jaskier, both of them unsure of what to do.

“Why can’t Geralt just use one of his potions? One of those ones that’s supposed to neutralize everything? The toxicity and all of that witcher-y nonsense? Wouldn’t that work just fine?” Jaskier tried, looking back and forth between Rosa and Geralt.

Geralt took a sharp breath through clenched teeth as Rosa dabbed more herb water on his wounds.

“Not a good idea, bard. No clue how it’ll react with the poison. There’s a good chance that it would work, but there’s about an equal chance that it will kill me.” Geralt grunted.

“Why? Don’t you already use those ingredients in your potions?”

“Yes, but-- _ shit, Rosa--”  _ The lines on Geralt’s face deepened and his knuckles turned white as he twisted them in the sheets.

“Sorry, witcher.” She muttered, concentrating on stitching one of the more difficult areas. Jaskier winced in sympathy. He’d been in Geralt’s place more than enough times in the past week.

“--but without knowing all of the ingredients,” Geralt continued, “and with no idea how much of each was in the poison, there’s no telling how the two will interact.”

“Then why are we even considering an antidote? Isn’t that the same--won’t it cause the same problem?” Rosa sighed and nodded, wiping her hands off with a damp cloth.

“All I am saying, young bard, is that it  _ is  _ an option. Not a good one. But should the situation become desperate, it might be needed.”

“You mean if it looks like we’ll be discovered.” Jaskier said flatly.

“Yes.”

Neither Geralt nor Jaskier had been blind to the rising tension in the inn. The longer they stayed, the more on edge everyone became. Aldwin had all but holed up in his room, rarely seen. Altair had begun to get flighty and nervous, jumping every time someone opened the door to the inn. Mara had disappeared, though that was nothing new. Rosa was the only one who seemed to be unbothered by the increasing risk. 

And Geralt and Jaskier had become antsy, the promise of Campbell’s men eventually showing up on their doorstep a surprisingly effective motivator in obeying Rosa’s stern commands. Neither man harbored any doubt that they were wanted, for a considerable sum of coin. And while Rosa was revealing in increasingly interesting manners that she was quite adept at deterring investigations, everyone knew that their grace period was quickly running out.

“I don’t know if an antidote is worth the risk.” Jaskier muttered, plucking absently at the strings of his lute.

“I do not, either. That is a decision for you to make together.” Rosa leveled them with a meaningful look.

The quick patter of footsteps down the hall drew all of their attention to the door. Two quiet knocks, and it creaked open.

“Campbell’s men at the door again, mum.” Altair whispered urgently, acknowledging Jaskier and Geralt with a serious nod. The pair met eyes across the room, nervous energy passing between them.

“Damn those infernal guards,” Rosa huffed, setting her basket of healing supplies down. If it was seen, it would only raise suspicion.

“I must deal with this. I will return when it is safe.” She stood up and swept out of the room, leaving them with their decision.

Jaskier tried to busy himself with his lute for a few minutes in an attempt to ignore the commotion coming from the bar, but it was an exercise in futility. He set his instrument aside and leaned back against the wall, biting his lip nervously. Across the room, Geralt was frowning and glowering at the fireplace, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Voices distorted by the din of the crowd out front filtered down the hall to them.

_ “What’s yer special today, Rosa?” _

_ “The same it’s been every day for the past week, Wulfric.”  _ Geralt jerked to alertness at the name. Jaskier eyed him discreetly, concerned. The tic in his jaw was back. Not a good name, then.

_ “Get us ‘summa that, then.”  _ Jaskier could picture Rosa rolling her eyes as he heard the clatter of dishes being placed on the counter.

_ “Any luck finding those criminals?”  _ She asked nonchalantly.

_ “None. No one seems to know what we’re askin ‘em about. Woulda thought the sound of the whole south wing crumblin’ would wake some folk.”  _

_ “One would think,”  _ Rosa replied, sounding uninterested.

The conversation died off after that, and Jaskier relaxed slightly. Ten or fifteen minutes later, there was the sound of bowls being gathered, and the troupe of guards stomped back outside.

Jaskier released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

“These visits are happening just a bit too often for my liking. I think they’re becoming suspicious.” He sighed, glancing over at Geralt. He was picking at his bandages, staring through the floorboards.

“We need to come to some sort of verdict on the whole antidote issue, don’t you think?” Jaskier asked gently. Geralt startled out of his stupor and scanned the room for threats.

“Just me, Geralt. You’re safe. The guards have gone.” He spoke calmly, holding out his hands in a placating motion. Recognition dawned in the witcher’s eyes and he sighed heavily pushing his hair out of his face.

“Right. Verdict.”

“I, for one, don’t think it’s a good idea. If things go wrong, they’ll only  _ keep  _ going wrong. First your condition goes downhill, then we can’t leave. And if Campbell’s men find us while you’re still so weak...I hate to imagine what would happen next. That’s not to mention Rosa and what would fall on her and Altair.”

Geralt nodded in agreement.

“It’s late in the season, anyways. Contracts will be hard to come by; I should return to Kaer Morhen. Maybe Vesemir can help.” Jaskier frowned. Geralt raised a questioning eyebrow.

“What do you mean,  _ ‘I?’  _ Just how do you intend to get there, in your state? Surely not by yourself?”

“I can hardly expect you to tag along. It’s not a journey for the faint of heart, and the destination isn’t exactly hospitable to humans.”

“Not a journey for the faint of heart, hmm? That’s  _ precisely  _ why I should come with you. You’d hardly last a week with your injuries.” Jaskier crossed his arms.  _ I dare you to argue with me,  _ his expression seemed to say.

The witcher sighed and went back to picking at his bandages.

“Stop that,” Jaskier said, “you’ll only undo all of Rosa’s hard work.” Geralt dropped his hands into his lap and glared at the bard.

“This is what I’m talking about. With all of your strange, self-destructive habits and how beat to shit you are right now, I’ll only spend the entire winter worried sick about you. You wouldn’t want that, right?”

“I know what you’re doing, Jaskier. You can’t guilt me into letting you follow along. Kaer Morhen is drafty and miserable and falling apart. It hasn’t seen outsiders since its sacking. Imagine what Vesemir and my brothers will think if I show up on the doorstep like  _ this,”  _ he gestured at his whole body, “with you by my side. You’ll be dead before you can make any kind of impression.”

“That’s what messenger birds are for.” Geralt rolled his eyes.

“There are always chores to be done. You would hate it there, and I won’t tolerate your whining for an entire winter.”

“I won’t whine! I can carry my own weight, thank you very much. I could even carry  _ your  _ weight, while you recover. Just admit it, Geralt. It would be better for me to come along and make sure you survive the trip. Besides, I’m more capable than you might think.” Geralt scoffed.

“Jaskier, I know you’ve bulked up since Posada, but you’re hardly a witcher. You’ve no clue what kind of chores I mean.”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting that I single-handedly saved you from Campbell. Would an incapable man be able to do  _ that?”  _ Geralt frowned and bared a single fang.

“Tch. That was hardly single-handed. You had help from that assassin,  _ and  _ Aldwin.” He huffed in disbelief. Jaskier paused for a moment, beaten.

“Fine. But what about when I fought off all of those guards while you got to safety?”

“You  _ what?”  _ Geralt’s eyes widened.

“Surely, you remember that. It was quite heroic. The stuff of the greatest ballads.”

“A bit preoccupied with dying, bard.” Geralt growled sarcastically.

“Right, right. Sorry.”

They lapsed into a semi-comfortable silence, the familiar banter a balm for their tension. After a few moments, the bard became twitchy, shifting on the bed and mumbling to himself.

“I…” Jaskier started and then huffed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Geralt looked at him expectantly. He opened his mouth and closed it again, his courage having suddenly abandoned him with Geralt’s eyes boring into him.

“Spit it out, bard.”

“I lost your swords. And your medallion.” He said quickly, squeezing his eyes shut and hunching his shoulders.

Geralt felt his stomach drop to his toes. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if Jaskier was playing some ill-timed prank, but the expression of self-recrimination was more than enough to assure him that it wasn’t a joke. The bard refused to make eye contact, staring around the room and blinking rapidly.

“Bard, are you  _ crying?”  _ Geralt asked.

“What? No. That's just the sun. Rosa forgot to close the curtains.” He spoke, his trembling voice betraying him. Stood up and made to draw the drapes shut, angling his body away from Geralt.

“Jaskier.” Geralt deadpanned.

“Yes?” He replied, his voice slightly too high.

“Look at me. Please.”

For a moment, it seemed as if he would be ignored. Then with a shuddering breath, the bard ever so slowly turned around. Geralt fixed him with a piercing gaze, and Jaskier was frozen. Even if he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t have been able to look away.

“I want you to listen to me very closely,” the witcher growled, “and don’t speak until I’m finished. Understand?”

Wordlessly, he nodded, looking torn between absolute terror and some small flicker of hope.

“Good. My swords were important to me. Gifted to me by my teachers when I was deemed ready to become a witcher. My medallion was even more important. When Campbell took it, I felt like I had lost a part of myself. That somehow, I’d lost my connection to my brothers.” Jaskier looked like he might throw up, or pass out, or both. Geralt continued.

“But,” he continued, “bard, it’s important for  _ you  _ to remember that they were only objects. I’ll miss them. But I’m more grateful that you came back. I’ll find a way to live without them.”

“You always used to guard them so jealously. How can you just let them go so easily?” Geralt resisted the urge to massage his temples in an attempt to stave off the headache building behind his eyes.

“I  _ can’t,  _ Jaskier. It’s not like these are things that Vesemir just has laying around at Kaer Morhen. A witcher only receives his sword and medallion when he’s ready to leave the fortress. They were my only physical attachment to my home. That’s why they were important to me. But they’re still only  _ things.  _ I would be a fool if I traded my life for them, and you would be too. I’m relieved you didn’t look for them.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier had never sounded so small.

“Yes.”

Geralt would be nothing short of the world’s biggest asshole if, after the bard having risked life and limb and sanity to return to Campbell’s hellhole and save his sorry ass, he turned around and acted an ungrateful buffoon. Just because he hadn’t managed to save both Geralt  _ and  _ all of his effects.

No. He had no right to be upset, and even less right to take it out on Jaskier. And he would much rather the bard not carry the guilt of losing the only worldly possessions he cared about. 

Even if it was tearing him apart inside to think about it.

Across the room, Jaskier’s head lolled forward and he jerked awake, blinking slowly.

“Go to sleep, bard.” Geralt growled.

“Goodnight, Geralt.” He rolled over and pulled the sheets up to his chin. Geralt didn’t move except to turn carefully on his back and stare at the ceiling. He tried not to think about what his brothers would say when he returned to Kaer Morhen in his disgraced and broken state, without even his medallion and swords to show he was one of them.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what do you think? Lots to celebrate! With the addition of this chapter, I have officially surpassed the 100,000 word mark--something I certainly never predicted. And we've got one chapter left! There’s still quite a few loose ends to wrap up in the final chapter, and I have at least one more surprise in store for you all! Comments and kudos are my favorite! <3


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